


Renegades

by pikestaff



Series: The Lightning Strike [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Ambiguous Character Death (NOT Anders), Anders Alive and Well, Anders Was Right, Anders is a sweetheart, Bisexual Characters, Blood, Canon-typical Circle Abuses, Crude Humor, Explicit Language, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Justice Positive, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Mental Illness, Mutual Pining, Political and Social Revolution, Purple/Red Hawke, Romantic Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, fuck the chantry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 164,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9664499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikestaff/pseuds/pikestaff
Summary: Marian Hawke is an asshole in a city filled with assholes.  So she surrounds herself with assholes that she trusts and then embraces it.  Of course she'd wind up the Champion of Asshole City.(This is a retelling of DA2, with a special focus on a Hawke who wholeheartedly supports Anders and the Mage Underground.  Some of the story/dialogue will be the same and some of it will be different.  Rated explicit for a lot of strong language, copious amounts of blood and violence, and some smut.  More info in the opening notes.This is a very Anders positive story.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really do want to stress that this fic is heavy on the blood, gore, violence, and death. It does not follow the game "canon" exactly and a lot of bad things happen to people. (Anders and Hawke both definitely survive and are happy, if that is your concern). If that's not your thing, it won't hurt my feelings if you don't read it!
> 
> I also want to stress that this fic deals with **Anders being absolutely, unequivocally right and justified in his actions.** If you don't agree with that, you will probably not enjoy this fic. I would appreciate my comment section not being turned into a war zone over this. I'm not interested in debate, just storytelling.
> 
> Finally, this story deals heavily with mental illness and neurodivergence, based largely on my own personal experiences with it in both myself and in those close to me. I hope you enjoy it!

Hawke got her magic— and decided that she no longer wanted to be called Marian— at about the same time. Thinking back on it, in fact, she actually wasn’t quite sure which happened first. Not that it mattered. The two were now intrinsically linked in her mind. She recalled being about seven and suddenly discovering that she could make the flowers in the yard freeze solid with a flick of her wrist, and she recalled telling her father and she recalled her father being both terribly proud and terribly worried.

She also recalled being about seven and suddenly deciding that she only wanted to be called Hawke. She’d heard other people call her father that, and as she idolized him she decided that she wanted in on this mystical and intriguing world of being called by your last name. Her parents humored her, at first, assuming it was a phase, but then the phase never quite went away.

Hawke looked back on it, now, and saw these two formative events as almost being one and the same. The day she got her magic was the day she became Hawke. Or perhaps, the day she became Hawke was the day she got her magic. That was the day she grew her wings.

Oh, her family didn’t always call her Hawke. Carver, especially, liked to be a tit about it. “Who gave you the monopoly on the family name?” he asked one time.

“Who gave you the monopoly on being a little shit?” Hawke replied without missing a beat. “Anyways, someone’s got to have it.” Hawke wasn’t looking at him. She was sitting on the steps outside the family house, looking towards Lothering. There was a piece of straw in her mouth and she chewed the end of it.

“Now that Father is gone, you mean?” Carver said. There was a barb in his voice; not that Hawke cared.

“You sure do love dragging Father into everything, don’t you?” Hawke replied evenly. She still wasn’t looking at him.

“Well maybe I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t trying to take his place,” said Carver. He leaned against a post and looked at his sister.

Hawke shrugged and plucked the straw from her mouth and flicked it onto the ground. “Yeah. Sure. You believe that.”

“Oh, would you two stop,” said Bethany, who was standing nearby and adjusting her hair. “I swear I’m the actual eldest, sometimes.” But the way she said it was fond, and she smiled.

Hawke would look back on this memory, later, and it would crystallize as the last real memory of the three of them together, before everything went to the Void and back. But for now, she squinted her eyes as she continued looking towards Lothering. “Do you believe the rumors?” she asked. “About the Blight.”

Carver sat down next to her. That was the thing, with him. He was a shithead but he was always there when it counted. Hawke appreciated it. “I dunno,” said Carver. “There are always darkspawn around, aren’t there? Sometimes more, sometimes less. Just because there’s more this time… I dunno.”

Hawke was quiet for a moment as she thought about it. She was equally torn. A part of her was trying to hang on to the idea that it wasn’t a true Blight, but another part of her ate at her insides and told her that her life was never going to be quite that simple. “So,” she said. “If it _is_ a Blight… are you…”

“Am I what?” Carver asked. “Going to go fight? Damn right I am.”

“Just don’t get yourself killed,” said Hawke. “You don’t want Mother throwing a fit.”

Carver smirked. “Aww. Marian really does care about her little brother!”

And she could’ve punched him for calling her that— she had before— but she let it slide. Just this once.

 

 

It was, as it turned out, a proper Blight. And Carver went to Ostagar, and he survived that bloody massacre, although a whole lot of other people didn’t. And that’s how the family wound up on the run, stumbling out of Lothering as it burned, surrounded on all sides by darkspawn.

That’s how Bethany died, at the hands of an ogre. Hawke might have found her sacrifice heroic, if it hadn’t been her baby sister.

That’s how they met a templar. One who put aside his duty at the advice of his wife, at least, and who died from the darkspawn taint soon after. His wife’s name was Aveline Vallen, and she put a sword through her own husband’s heart to spare him from his misery. Hawke wondered if she could ever be so bold.

That’s how they met the Witch of the Wilds. Now that was a story that Hawke didn’t think anyone would ever believe. A dragon swooped down upon them and turned into an old woman with yellow eyes and whisked them away to Gwaren. The maddening part was that this had _actually happened_ , and this simply made Hawke’s life feel all the more unreal.

And now they were in the hold of a ship bound for Kirkwall. The hold was crowded and dark and smelled of disease and terror. They were there for two weeks, and Hawke spent most of those two weeks despondent. She had lost her sister, and it was her fault. She was the oldest and she’d failed. She, personally, had failed to keep them together.

She sighed and scooted further down on the wall she was propped up against. The family’s mabari dog whuffed at her and laid his head on her lap. Hawke scratched him behind his ears, lazily.

She and Carver and her mother had escaped, at least, but the victory was hollow. Hawke wondered if it was even a victory at all. Idly, she wished that the Witch of the Wilds had never found them and that they’d all died back on some Maker-forsaken side road outside a shit-covered farm town in the ass end of Thedas. They’d have all been together, then. With Father.

Carver came and sat next to her at one point. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a solid three or four days. It had probably been about that long since they’d talked, too. “Hey,” he said.

Hawke grunted.

“How’s Mother doing?” Carver asked.

Hawke shrugged. “I ‘unno.”

“Haven’t you talked to her at all?”

“Haven’t you?”

“Andraste’s fucking tits.” Carver put his head in his hands. “I thought you— being the oldest—”

“What am I supposed to say?” Hawke shot back. “Sorry I couldn’t save her? Sorry I failed? She already blames me. You heard her, after.”

“She was upset.”

Hawke shrugged. “You can be upset and also right. I don’t think she wants to talk, anyhow.”

Carver said nothing. He reached a hand out towards their dog and patted him a few times, and the dog wagged his stumpy tail lazily in response. “Have you talked to Aveline at all?” Carver asked.

“A little,” said Hawke.

“Do you think she can be trusted?”

“Trusted?”

“You’re an apostate. Her husband was a templar.”

“Why are you always the one that’s so concerned for my safety?” Hawke asked. “She didn’t turn me in at Gwaren, anyways.”

Carver sighed and then changed the subject. “What do you think will happen in Kirkwall?”

“Well, according to Mother, we’ve got a place lined up for us,” said Hawke. “So I guess we’ve just got to get that sorted.”

“You do realize that there are more templars in Kirkwall than there are piles of dog shit in Ferelden, yes?”

“Good. Maybe you can finally get a real job.” And Hawke tried to smile at him with that smile she saved for Carver when she wanted to annoy him, but this time there was too much sadness in it and she wasn’t sure how well that translated into her expression.

Not very well, apparently, because Carver just looked down at the floor.

 

Hawke did try to talk to her mother a few days later. There wasn’t much privacy on the ship, but Leandra had managed to carve out a nook for herself in one depressing corner. For the most part people let her be, as she was obviously grieving. She put on a brave face for Hawke, though. “How’s Carver?” she asked.

Hawke smiled thinly. Of course she was worried for her children and not herself. “He’s fine. I’m fine. But how are you?”

Leandra sat on the edge of her cot. “I just wish…” She was desperately trying to hold back tears. “I wish all of us had made it.”

“I know,” said Hawke. She sat beside her. Leandra held her, then, and Hawke let her cry. “Your father would have been so proud of you, though,” she said finally, and she leaned back and looked at Hawke through her tears. “Before he died he put you in charge, you know. And it’s because of you— and Carver— that any of us made it at all. We can’t forget that.”

“I guess we can’t,” said Hawke, humoring her.

“We’ll start a new life. All of us will,” said Leandra firmly. “And it will all work out. You’ll see.”

 

But as Hawke slept that night, in the filth of that ship’s hold, with her dog curled up beside her, she dreamed she was back outside Lothering, chewing a piece of straw and shooting the breeze with Bethany and Carver both as the wind rustled her dark hair.


	2. Chapter 2

The next several months were not ones that Hawke particularly wanted to remember.

Getting into Kirkwall had been a nightmare to begin with. First, the guards had claimed that the city was full. Whether it actually was or not wasn’t something Hawke cared about. What she cared about was getting her family somewhere safe, where they could finally take their time to recuperate and mourn after the past couple of horrific weeks.

Then, before they could even do that, her uncle Gamlen had proved to be a flake and a fairly awful human being who had lost their estate. He’d gotten them into a rat-infested hole in Lowtown, barely— Hawke and Carver had to work a smuggling ring to pay off some sort of debt that Gamlen had incurred in order to get them into the city in the first place.

Hawke dealt with it because she had to, and because she thought her mother deserved some peace. She dealt with Carver’s whiny ass the whole way, too— although she did have to give him some amount of credit for doing his best. He may have complained the whole time, but he never shirked his duty.

Finally the last of the debts had been paid off, though, and Hawke and Carver were in the clear. “You’ve been good,” said Athenril, the elf who was in charge of this particular smuggling ring. She always looked as though she hadn’t slept in days, and Hawke could never tell if that was actually the case or if that was just her permanent expression. “We’ll miss having you around. If you ever need any extra cash…”

“I’m good, thanks,” said Hawke, and she did little to mask the bitterness in her voice. None of this would have happened in the first place if Gamlen hadn’t been a slimy weasel, but that was neither here nor there, she supposed. It was all over, so at least there was that.

Aveline had been luckier than the Hawke siblings. She’d been recruited into the city guard almost as soon as she arrived. She and Hawke would meet up and talk, on occasion. Aveline didn’t take any shit from anyone and Hawke admired that. She also enjoyed the side benefits that came with having friends in high places. Specifically, she knew that at least one person wasn’t going to rat her out for being an apostate.

“How’s that whole… smuggling gig working out for you?” Aveline asked one day. She didn’t hide the distaste in her tone of voice.

“It’s over,” said Hawke. They were outside, leaning against one of the vast walls of the Viscount’s Keep in the bright sun. Aveline was on break. “Which is good for you. You won’t have to worry about looking the other way anymore.”

“Maker’s breath, Hawke,” said Aveline. “It was never about that so much as it was about… well… you deserve better. You and Carver both do.”

“Oh? Got any jobs?” Hawke wasn’t being particularly serious when she asked that.

“I’m sure someone of your particular _skillset_ shouldn’t have much trouble finding something,” said Aveline. “So long as you’re careful, I mean.”

“Ah yes. The killer apostate. I’m sure that will go over well here.” Hawke kicked a weed with her boot. It didn’t go anywhere, so she kicked it again.

“Don’t tell me you suddenly forgot how to blend in,” Aveline said. “You might check the marketplace, though. There are often people looking for, you know. Potions and things.”

Hawke got the drift, and she nodded. “Thanks,” she said suddenly. “For not turning me in. By the way.”

Aveline smiled. “Don’t do anything stupid, Hawke.”

“Oh, you know me,” said Hawke. “Stupid is my middle name.”

“And are you ever going to tell me your first?”

“Nope.”

 

It was a little later that day and Hawke and Carver were in Hightown’s marketplace. The job search had, for the most part, been a bust. Most Kirkwallers were horribly prejudiced against Fereldans, and neither Hawke nor Carver were about to hide their noticeable accent. They did eventually find some dwarf who was looking for partners to fund an expedition into the Deep Roads. “You know,” Carver said, as they two of them eyeballed the dwarf from afar, “If we went down there I’m sure we could find enough treasure to set all of us up for a long, long time.”

“I'd kind of figured you’d be done with kicking the shit out of darkspawn for a while,” said Hawke.

“The Blight’s over. The darkspawn have cleared out. For now, anyway,” said Carver.

Hawke had to agree that her butthead brother had a point, so they approached the dwarf.

He shut them down immediately, and no amount of persuasion would do anything. “No money, no deal,” he said as he shooed them away. It was just as well.

The sun was just starting to set on the city and they were heading back home when some fool kid bumped into Hawke and… made off with her coin purse. She whirled on him and was about to deal him a nasty black eye when the kid wound up pressed up against the wall with a bolt in his sleeve.

Hawke turned. It was another dwarf, albeit a beardless one. He had a crossbow, and he sauntered up to the kid as though he were taking a springtime stroll, at which point he socked him in the jaw and snatched the purse back from him.

After the kid scampered away, the dwarf turned and tossed the coin purse at Hawke, who deftly caught it. “Nice crossbow,” she said.

The dwarf bowed. “Thanks. Her name is Bianca, and mine is Varric Tethras.” He bowed slightly. “I saw you talking to my brother back there.”

Hawke turned and looked back towards the sniveling dwarf who had turned down their offer of help. “ _He’s_ your brother? I’m sorry to hear that.”

Varric held up his hands melodramatically. “What can I say? Sometimes the best of us are saved for last.”

“What he said,” Carver muttered, looking pointedly at Hawke.

“He said ‘sometimes’,” said Hawke.

“Anyways,” said Varric, “Don’t give up on him too easily. He won’t care who’s funding his little expedition, so long as you show up with the money.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t, but we’re kind of broke,” said Hawke.

“Sure, you are now,” said Varric. “But Kirkwall? It’s a mess. It needs people to clean it up. Do that, and you’ll be on your way to fifty gold pieces in no time.”

Hawke quirked an eyebrow. “And you’re helping us… why?”

“I’m helping you help me,” said Varric. “I know who you and Junior there are. I saw what you did for Athenril. You’ve got talent. This operation needs you. You’ve just got to sign on and we’ll all come out rich.”

It was a fair assessment. Hawke knew she and her brother had skill. She turned and looked over at him. “Well?”

“If it’ll get us and Mother a better place to live, why not?” Carver shrugged.

Carver’s argument was persuasive. As it was, they were living in a shack, and while she and Carver may have been assholes who deserved it, their mother certainly didn’t. Not after what she’d been through. Not after Bethany. Hawke looked back over at Varric. “Okay. Deal.”

 

They didn’t get home until late that night. Varric had taken the two of them to the Hanged Man, where he’d proceeded to tell them his plans for getting their whole operation started. He’d given them some leads on various odd jobs that they could take, and also told them of an ex-Grey Warden who was in hiding somewhere. Apparently this ex-Warden had maps that could point out the best entrances to the Deep Roads, which was something they would need for obvious reasons. Hawke said she’d look into it the next day. As it was, she didn’t want to go wandering around an unfriendly city in the dark. Not because she couldn’t defend herself, but because doing so would just be messy and an all around pain in the ass.

So late that night she sat in a side room in their dingy Lowtown hut, patting the dog and trying to pretend that Gamlen and Leandra weren’t yelling at each other in the next room over. She was staring rather blankly at a mouse that was crawling along the wall opposite her when Carver wandered in. “I’ll give you a shiny golden sovereign if you go away,” said Hawke without looking at him, and Carver cursed at her and then sat next to her anyway. Because that’s what Hawkes did, ultimately. They stuck together.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Carver asked.

Hawke shrugged. “I ‘unno. Worst case scenario, we’ve got more freelance work lined up.”

“Yeah,” said Carver. “I guess we do.” He scratched his head. “What about this Warden guy?”

“What about him?”

“Does he scare you?”

“Why would he?”

“I dunno. Why did he leave the Wardens? You don’t just leave the Wardens.”

“Not my problem,” said Hawke. “Besides. We’ve got Aveline. If he does something sketchy she can smack him in the head with her shield and drag him away.”

Carver laughed. “Point taken,” he said. “Now we just have to hope you don’t go and do anything fucking crazy.”

“You know me,” said Hawke. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos so far! I really appreciate them :)


	3. What If This Storm Ends

“Well, this place is a mess.” It was Aveline who had made the statement. She, Hawke, Carver, and Varric were gathered together in the packed building that was Lirene’s Fereldan Imports. The refugees were jostling for attention from the women who ran the little shop, and the place was filled with the familiar scent of grass and weeds and wet dog. Hawke actually found it difficult to be impatient. She felt oddly content. She was safer, here, among her rough countrypeople, than anywhere else in Kirkwall.

“Is that Warden actually here, dwarf?” Carver asked Varric.

Varric shrugged. “I just heard that they’d know where to find him.”

Hawke wasn’t looking at them. She was looking at a little bin off to the side of the room which was marked “Donations”. Notably, the donation box was full.

They eventually managed to push their way up to the front of the shop. “Are you here to make a purchase?” Lirene asked. She looked tired.

“We’re looking for someone, actually,” said Hawke.

Lirene’s expression immediately grew cold. “Pardon me for saying so, serah,” she said, “But you appear to be in fine shape. Is there a reason you’re looking for our healer?”

“There is, and it’s important,” said Hawke. She noticed that Lirene remained skeptical, and she was sharp enough to know what that meant. “You’re hiding him,” she said.

Lirene leaned a bit closer. “And it’s just as well. I would not have the templars after him.”

“Templars?” Carver asked.

“…he’s a mage,” Hawke said, realization dawning on her.

“Of course he’s a mage,” said Lirene. “Would I be this desperate to hide a simple potion peddler? Anders has healed our wounds and delivered our children for free. You’ll forgive me if I have reason to be protective.”

“I assure you,” said Hawke, summoning a brief bit of fire in her palm before immediately extinguishing it, “Your healer has nothing to fear from me.”

Lirene knew exactly what Hawke’s gesture meant, and her face softened a little. “Those who look for the healer know to find the lanterns in Darktown,” she said finally, and with that she turned her attention to another customer.

“Well,” said Hawke to her companions. “To Darktown, then.”

 

If Lirene’s Fereldan Imports was a mess, Darktown was a disaster. The place was crawling with humans and elves alike, all of them tattered and ratty. Each one glared daggers at Hawke, but none of them would ever dare make a move with Aveline there. Hawke kicked a piece of trash and watched it roll down the street. “The sewers are lovely this time of year,” she deadpanned.

“Don’t get too excited,” Varric said suddenly, “But I think we’ve found what we’re looking for.”

Hawke followed his gaze. Sure enough, they weren’t far from a rickety old building adorned with lanterns hanging off the wall.

Hawke looked over at Aveline and Carver. They nodded at her, signaling that they were ready for whatever was inside. So she approached the door and pushed it open.

The inside of the building was filled with debris of all sorts. Bottles, papers, inkwells, crates, rags, feathers, and Maker-knew-what scattered about as though a whirlwind had visited the room. But in one corner were cots, most of which were reasonably tidy, and in another corner was some sort of work desk covered in poultices and potions and pestles, and there in the middle of the room was the whirlwind himself, a man who was currently bent low over a table as he worked warm healing magic on the boy who lay there. The man was as disheveled as his own clinic. He had his blonde hair back in a tie, although by this point in the day several strands had come loose and hung in front of his face as he leaned over. He had stubble, but Hawke got the distinct impression that this wasn’t from shaving so much as it was from lack of it. He didn’t seem to notice Hawke’s entrance as he concentrated on his charge, eyes focused, sweat beading on his brow, but then it was all over and the boy sat up and coughed, cured of whatever ailment he’d had, and as he slid off the table and ran to his mother the healer stumbled backwards, weak and drained.

He still wasn’t looking at Hawke and she was struck with a sudden and very unusual pang of compassion for the man— the sort of compassion one might feel for a small animal caught in a rainstorm. The man was tall, but he _looked_ small, there, and even almost lost— head bowed low, eyes closed, breathing heavily, surrounded by his own detritus. He wore a ridiculous coat with feathers on the shoulders, and those feathers gave him the appearance of a drooping wet bird.

Hawke stepped forward. Nominally it was because she wanted to talk to him, as that has what she had come for, after all, but in truth it had been instinct and the sudden inexplicable desire to want to comfort this sorry man. But that’s when he whirled on her, staff at the ready, arms raised, and eyes—

—were his eyes _glowing?_

_“I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation. Why do you threaten it?”_

Hawke paused. Beside her, Aveline and Carver had their swords raised. The healer would have to be a fool to attack when he was alone and Hawke had this much backup. Somehow, she had the impression that he didn’t actually want to fight. She’d simply startled him. “I just want to talk,” she said. She had her own hands raised, showing that she was unarmed. Not that _that_ mattered, since she was a mage, but the man didn’t know that. “I’ve heard you have maps,” she said. “To the Deep Roads.”

The healer’s expression changed to one of suspicion and the strange unworldly timbre in his voice had faded as he put his staff down. “Did the wardens send you? I’m not going back. They took my cat. Poor Ser Pounce-a-Lot. He hated the Deep Roads almost as much as I did.”

“They…” Hawke was puzzled. “Excuse me, what? You had a cat? Named Ser Pounce-a-Lot? In the Deep Roads?”

“He was a gift. A noble beast. Swatted a genlock on the nose once. Drew blood, too.” There was a sheen in his eye, the type that Hawke knew well. The type that said _you wouldn’t know it right now, but I’m actually a sarcastic little shit._ And that’s exactly when Hawke was won over. If he was gonna sit here and be a shithead and bitch about his cat, well. She would’ve done the exact same thing if people had taken her dog from her. He was one of hers, now. He was family, and she trusted him.

“I’m Hawke,” she said.

“Anders,” he replied. His expression was still skeptical and he crossed his arms. “Why do you need maps of the Deep Roads?”

“We’re planning an expedition and any maps you have could potentially save a lot of lives,” Hawke replied, opting to go for the plea for compassion option. He was a healer, he’d love it.

“Why in the Maker’s name do you want to go into the Deep Roads?”

“I have a family to protect,” Hawke said. “Protecting them means making money. There is money to be made in the Deep Roads.” She shrugged.

“And you can’t just get a job like a normal person?” Ah, there he was. The inner shithead was coming out. “You know. Join the templars,” he added with no small amount of disgust as he looked away to the side. “Seems like they’re always looking for new fearless recruits.”

Hawke decided it was time to drop the bombshell. “I don’t think the templars would be interested in hiring an apostate.”

 _That_ got his attention. He snapped his head around and looked at her oddly. She stared back at him. _Try me_ , she was thinking.

But his voice softened. “No. I suppose they wouldn’t.” He smiled thinly. It was the first time he’d done so and his eyes crinkled a bit at the corners, which meant it was a genuine smile. _And we’ve only just met_ , thought Hawke. _He wears his heart on his sleeve._ She tucked that tidbit away for future reference.

He was talking, again. “I’m… not exactly eager to send anyone else into the Deep Roads,” he said. “Even if it’s for a good cause. But—” he paused now and tilted his head. “Maybe you could help me? A favor for a favor?”

“Depends,” said Hawke. “I don’t work with children or animals.”

She’d said that specifically to get a laugh out of him, but it seemed as though whatever this favor was, it was too serious for that. “I have a friend named Karl,” he said. “In the Gallows. I intend on breaking him out. And I could use skilled help.”

“Works for me,” said Hawke without missing a beat.

“Hawke!” Aveline exclaimed.

“Ah yes, more apostates! That’s just what we need!” said Carver.

“You know, ‘apostate’ is such a loaded term,” said Anders. “We’re labeled heretics and traitors for— what? For wanting to actually have a normal life? For wanting to be able to choose what we wear and what we eat for breakfast?”

“Yeah, shut the fuck up,” Hawke told Carver, although admittedly she wasn’t saying it to agree with Anders so much as she was saying it to piss off her brother.

“Hawke. Can we talk about this? Alone?” This was Aveline.

“No. We’re talking about it right now,” said Hawke. “What’s the issue?”

“The issue is that you’re breaking the law by taking a mage from the Circle,” said Aveline.

“And you’re technically breaking the law by not arresting me,” said Hawke.

“Don’t tempt me,” said Aveline.

“You know as well as I do that everyone and their dog is accusing the templars here of abusing their power,” Hawke protested. “Don’t you want a closer look? You can’t tell me you don’t want to take a closer look.”

Aveline sighed and looked the other way.

Hawke turned and looked back at Anders. His mouth was agape. “You’ll… help?” He looked thoroughly nonplussed.

“Yes,” said Hawke. “Give us a time and a date.” He was one of her people, now. She wanted him to know it.

“Tonight, then,” said Anders. “At the Chantry.”

“The Chantry?”

“We’ve arranged a meeting place,” said Anders. If all goes well it will be nice and quiet. If it doesn’t go well, then— that’s why I’ve asked for your help.”

“Got it,” said Hawke. She turned around. “See you tonight.”

 

“You know, of all the dumb ideas you’ve had over the years, this is probably the dumbest,” said Carver. It was late that night and they were headed to the Chantry.

“Really? And did you have any better ones? I’m all ears.” Hawke had her asshole voice on again.

“I mean, we could have just demanded he hand over the maps,” said Carver.

Hawke looked at him as if he’d said that nugs could fly. “He looks like the type who would do that, huh? You’re optimistic. Anyway, we’re here, so if you could stop your whining I’d appreciate it.”

They paused a little way outside the Chantry. Hawke could see Anders standing just outside the building, in the shadows, his expression nervous. He seemed so small next to the Chantry, and looked very much like a lost kitten. No, she wasn’t going to make him wait anymore. She approached and he looked over at her with no small amount of relief. “I saw Karl go in a little while ago,” said Anders. “If we’re lucky, this will be quick. Run in, run out. We’ll return to my clinic and get you your maps.”

“And I suspect we’re backup if we aren’t so lucky, then?” asked Hawke.

“Yes,” said Anders. “But I’m… I’m hoping it won’t come to that. Anyway, when we see Karl, just let me talk to him.” He looked around at Hawke’s companions. “Are we ready?”

Hawke looked at the others. They nodded, so Hawke turned back to Anders. “Yes.”

The Chantry was dark and still— empty, as was typically the case at night. The Grand Cleric might have been there, somewhere, or she might have been at home, but either way she certainly wasn’t anywhere in sight at the moment. In fact, the whole place was actually coming off to Hawke as _too_ quiet, and this alarmed her. “Be on your guard,” she hissed to Aveline and Carver. They nodded.

They rounded a corner; a man was standing facing the wall. He was a mage, if his robes were any indication. Anders was a bit ahead of her and she heard him let out a sigh of relief. “Karl,” he breathed.

The mage spoke without turning around. “I know you too well, Anders. I knew you would never give up,” he said. His voice was flat and measured.

“…Karl? What’s wrong? Why are you talking like this?” Anders’ voice was filled with utter confusion, and that immediately set Hawke off and she brandished her staff while her friends pulled out their own weapons.

And that was when Karl turned and Hawke saw the dullness in his eyes and the Chantry’s shining sunburst on his forehead. And Hawke knew exactly what that meant and she knew exactly why they were going to have to get out of there _now_.

Karl was talking again. “I was too rebellious, like you. The templars knew I had to be… made an example of.”

“No,” Anders choked.

“It’s a trap,” Hawke nearly yelled out, and she turned around to see templars closing in on them.

“No!” Anders screamed again, but this time he fell to his knees, gripping his head as though his hands were a vice. Hawke whirled on him to tell him to get up, that now was not the time, but she stopped before she could because there was something else there. Something, _something_ was happening— Anders was desperately trying to contain whatever it was, but then it all came out all storm and fury and crackling white-hot lightning, and the man who just moments ago had looked like a lost kitten was now a searing blue flame given human form, his eyes burning with a transcendent light and his voice no longer his own as he cried out _“You will never take another mage as you took him!”_

Had they not been fighting templars, Hawke would have put considerably more thought into all of this than she did. As it was, though, she focused on her magic, channeling flames and frost into their attackers as Carver’s sword sang through the air and Aveline’s shield bashed a man over the head and Varric sent a bolt through someone’s eyes. The templars put up a tough fight but, ultimately, stood no chance against four skilled fighters and one very angry man who had seemingly been possessed by a hurricane, and eventually the templars were all on the ground and standing above them, still burning, was Anders, his entire being pulsing blue and white.

And that’s when Karl said his name.

“Anders?”

The glow faded as Anders returned to mortality and turned to him. “Karl!”

“What… what did you do?” Karl was stunned. “It’s like you brought a piece of the Fade back into this world. I had already forgotten what that feels like."

Anders was desperate as he talked. “Karl? What happened? How did the templars get you?”

“The templars here are far more vigilant than they are in Ferelden,” Karl explained. “They found a letter I was writing you. You cannot imagine it, Anders. All the color, all the music in the world… gone. Please— kill me before I forget again. I don’t know how you brought it back but it’s fading—”

“Karl… no… I can’t…” Anders begged him. He turned to look at Hawke with wide, pleading eyes, and in them there was such a endless depth of _trust_ that Hawke had to answer him.

“I would rather be dead than tranquil,” she said. She knew it’s not what he wanted to hear. But she knew that he knew it was the truth.

Karl’s pleas were growing more and more desperate. “Please! Now, Anders, it’s fading! I…” His voice trailed off into calmness. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Anders shut his eyes and bowed his head. He let out a ragged breath. And for a moment, Hawke wasn’t sure if he was actually going to do it. But then he pulled a knife out of a pouch with a shaky hand and stepped towards Karl, and Hawke lowered her eyes out of respect as Anders did the deed and Karl died in his arms.

Gently Anders lowered Karl’s lifeless body to the floor, and then turned to leave. “We should go,” he said, without stopping to look at the others. “Before more templars come.”

 

The five of them returned to Darktown in silence. Anders was walking ahead of them, head bowed, hair drooped in front of his face. Hawke, Carver, Aveline, and Varric walked a few steps behind, giving him the space he needed. Hawke knew that Aveline, in particular, kept giving him furtive glances, but Hawke knew that he wasn’t going to try anything. Not in this state. Besides, she trusted him. He was one of hers, and she trusted her own.

Once they arrived back at Anders’ clinic, he went straight to his desk and rummaged around briefly before pulling out a few papers which he handed over to Hawke. “Thank you,” he said. He looked as though he’d done his best to pull himself together on the walk back— Hawke knew better, of course. “My maps are yours,” Anders continued. “As is my assistance, should you ever need it in the future.” He looked away. “I… suppose you’re wondering what my… reaction… was about.”

Hawke had a reasonable guess, but she wasn’t going to say so when the poor man was in _this_ state. “Of course not,” she snarked. Snark wasn't perhaps the best response either, but she had nothing else.

And Anders smirked. It was lopsided and there were crinkles at the corners of his eyes again. And Hawke was glad that she’d managed to make him smile in such a situation, even if only for a fleeting moment. It was better than nothing. Damn, she knew too well how it was better than nothing.

“When I was in Amaranthine, I met a friend named Justice. He was a spirit. He possessed the corpse of a dead Warden, but he couldn’t stay that way forever. I… he… well. We came to a mutual agreement. We both needed help, and, so… we joined.”

“You’re an abomination, then,” said Carver.

“Hey, remember earlier today when I told you to shut the fuck up? You could do that again now, maybe,” said Hawke.

“I am possessed, yes,” said Anders, tossing a quick glare at Carver. “Whether or not I am an abomination is dependent on whether Justice is still Justice, or if he is… Vengeance. It’s… harder to tell, these days.” Anders looked down. Hawke was, once again, struck with the thought of a small lost animal.

She shrugged. “I dunno. Sounds like that glowy blue thing can come in handy.”

Anders looked up at her, confused. “You don’t… mind?”

“I mean, Justice got a nice body, at least,” said Hawke, and the second it came out of her mouth she mentally kicked herself. Oh, she flirted with everyone. That was nothing new. But she probably shouldn’t have flirted Anders, right that second. Not immediately after what had just happened.

Anders appeared genuinely surprised, and he smiled again, and Hawke decided that her ill-timed flirting was worth it just for that smile. “I… should check a looking glass more often,” he said. But then his expression grew serious again. “I’m sorry for losing control over Justice. But… to make a Harrowed mage tranquil…” he shook his head. “The Chantry doesn’t care that Karl was someone’s friend… someone’s lover.” He spat the word and shut his eyes and turned, as though trying to compose himself again, but instead the life just seemed to go out of him and his shoulders slumped. “They just care that he was a mage.”

“Lover?” Hawke couldn’t help but ask. She had gotten that impression, but she hadn’t wanted to assume.

Anders looked back at her. “We didn’t exactly get out much, in the Circle. Karl was… my first,” he said. Then, suddenly, he added, “Does that bother you?”

This was a perplexing question. Of course it didn’t. “I’ve been with my fair share of girls,” Hawke shrugged. “…and boys,” she added immediately afterward, and she didn’t know _why_ she added it until after she said it, and that’s when she made a mental note to chastise herself for it later.

But Anders just smiled at her and every time, _every time_ he did it Hawke wanted to box that smile up and file it away somewhere in her memories for rainy days. “Good looking _and_ understanding,” he said, and then he immediately shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… it’s just that we’ve just met and I feel like I know you, already.”

 _Maker but he is adorable_ , Hawke thought. _Like a puppy. It shouldn’t be legal. Aveline should be dragging him away for breaking some law by being too cute._ “You’re one of mine, now,” she said. She pointed to the others behind her. “You know, like them. I can tell who my people are when I meet them. And you’re one of my people.”

“Oh, so you’re lumping the abomination in with us now?” asked Carver.

And Hawke turned around and socked him in the arm, just enough for him to wince. “Come on, baby brother,” she said as she walked away. “Widdle Carver is getting grumpy so now it’s time for bed.”

And the last thing she heard as she left the clinic was Anders chuckling.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke and Anders bond over some atrocious and dirty jokes.

It was a couple of weeks before Hawke saw Anders again.

Those two weeks were mostly spent running odd jobs with Carver and Varric, and Aveline when she could talk her into it. Aveline had not been particularly happy about having to cover up who had killed the templars in the Chantry, but she did ultimately promise Hawke that she wouldn’t tell anyone, and Hawke believed her.

She also managed to recruit a few more people into what she considered to be her personal merry band of misfits. These included a Dalish mage named Merrill, a pirate named Isabela, and Fenris, a fugitive slave from Tevinter. As had been the case with Anders, Hawke immediately claimed each of these people as _her own_ , which was really what mattered. She wanted to surround herself with people that she trusted, and her fellow outcasts were shaping up to be her best bet for that. If Kirkwall wasn’t going to be there for them, then they would be there for each other.

When Hawke returned to Darktown for the first time since Anders had given her the maps, it was because she and Carver were on a impromptu mission to recover their grandfather’s will. Uncle Gamlen and her mother had been arguing, as per usual, and Hawke and Carver had given each other a knowing look and then taken the dog and bailed from the house. Once outside Hawke brought up that she’d figured out where the will was supposedly being stashed and Carver immediately agreed to go on a spontaneous recovery mission.

The location, as it turned out, was in Darktown, not far from Anders’ clinic, and now they were standing outside the filthy rat-infested tunnels of said place while the dog whined at them. “Maker’s fucking…” Marian peered in through the slats of the boarded-up building. “Uncle wasn’t kidding when he said he’d put that thing somewhere no one could get to.”

“You know there’s bound to be bandits in there,” said Carver.

“Yeah.” Hawke looked over at him. “Think we should grab Aveline?”

“I thought Aveline was mad at you?”

“She’s not mad. She’s… how did she put it… ‘disappointed’.”

“That’s ‘mom’ for mad,” said Carver.

Hawke laughed, but then she had a thought. “You know what we could use more than Aveline,” she said, “Is a healer.”

Carver made a face. “And we’d been doing so well without having to bring the abomination with us.”

“You’re just jealous because you’re not the tallest one in the squad anymore,” said Hawke. “Besides, he’s right here. Aveline is on the other side of the city. The sooner we recover the will, the sooner we can shut up our dear Uncle Gamlen.”

“I guess,” Carver muttered.

Hawke turned and looked down at her dog. “Shadow, be a good boy and make sure Carver doesn’t go anywhere while I’m gone. And make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Shadow barked happily.

“Andraste’s ass,” Carver sighed. “Just go get your fucking mage already.”

 

Anders’ clinic was just a few minutes walk away so it took Hawke no time to get there. It didn’t seem to be busy, so she pushed gently on the door and let herself in. She’d expected to see Anders there hard at work, leaning over a patient, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’d gone out?

Hawke took another step— and nearly tripped, her boot having landed right in the middle of some crockery which smashed into a hundred little pieces, and then she spun around because she saw a pile of feathers leap out of one of the cots in the corner, and for a few brief seconds Hawke and Anders stared at each other, staves raised, eyes flaring, before realizing what had just happened.

“Andraste’s knickers, Hawke,” Anders breathed as he put down his staff. “You startled me.”

“I… didn’t know your dinner was on the floor,” said Hawke, looking down at the mess she’d made. “Or that your dinner was a dish of milk, for that matter.”

“I put it out for cats, sometimes,” said Anders matter-of-factly, as though this was a perfectly normal thing to do. Perhaps it was, for him. “Of course, I’ll have to get a new dish, now.”

“Do you… get many cats?” asked Hawke.

“Sometimes. There was a stripey one yesterday,” Anders replied, and his entire face lit up at this memory.

Hawke had been intending to ask him how he was holding up after what had happened a few weeks prior, but now that he was exuding sunshine she didn’t want to take that from him. She’d lost people. She knew he was hurting. She decided she didn’t have to ask. Instead, she said, “Are you up for doing a favor for me?”

“Mmm. Depends. What was it you told me last time? ‘No kids or animals’, I believe?” He sat down at edge of his cot.

“You know you love both,” said Hawke, and her only reason for saying this was a hunch, because she, also, loved both.

“I’m that easy to read, huh?”

“Like a book.”

Anders smiled at that. “What did you need?”

“Carver and I are trying to recover my grandfather’s will. It’s in a shack out front.” She flicked her thumb in that direction. “But the place is crawling with bandits, no doubt. They’ll probably have to be cleared out. Such a shame.”

“You need a healer?”

“It would be nice.”

“Say no more.” Anders stood and took his staff. Hawke got a good look at him, for the first time. He was thin. Not dangerously so, but enough that it was noticeable. His arms did have some build to them, and Hawke guessed his torso probably did, too, due to constantly waving a heavy staff around. She was built similarly, for the same reason.

She must have been staring, because Anders looked at her and then suddenly looked down at himself and smoothed his coat, so Hawke quickly cleared her throat and headed for the door. “Thanks,” she said. “For coming, I mean.”

“I’m usually not so quick,” Anders quipped.

Hawke paused. Did he just—?

Oh, Carver was gonna love this.

 

They met up with Carver again a few minutes later. He nodded politely at Anders, and Shadow was immediately all over the newcomer. Anders did his best to hide the fact that he was enjoying being jumped on by a purebred mabari— “Your canine wiles won’t work on me, I’m a cat person”— but Hawke saw the scratches he slipped behind the dog’s ears when he thought no one was looking.

Carver bashed in the boarded up door with a boot and headed inside the building without a second look back. Hawke followed, and Anders was close behind. Directly ahead of them was a staircase that headed straight down into darkness, and they were about halfway down it when Hawke heard Anders’ footsteps slowing behind her. She paused and looked back; it was tough to see in the dim light, but Anders looked… nervous. Behind him, Shadow whined, sensing that something was wrong.

Anders noticed that Hawke was looking at him, and he quickly tried to dismiss whatever was wrong. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just a bit… ah…” he lowered his voice a little. “…claustrophobic.”

 _Ohh_. Hawke felt a little bad asking him come down here, now. “Will you be okay?”

“Mm.” Anders summoned a little ball of light in one hand. “Light helps. I’ll… thank you. I just need a minute.”

Ahead of them, Carver was still fearlessly soldiering on into the dark, and Hawke absolutely did not want him to find out about Anders’ problem and then have him give the poor man shit. Because he would. So she said, loudly, “Hey Anders. What’s brown and sticky?”

Anders gave her a funny look.

“A stick,” finished Hawke. She took a step towards him and then elbowed him in the side, teasingly.

From down the stairs, she heard Carver groan. “Really, Hawke?”

Anders smiled, though, and slowly he began to descend the staircase again. “That’s… the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

“There’s more where that came from,” said Hawke.

“If you tell the one I think you’re about to,” Carver said, “I swear to the Maker…”

Hawke was way ahead of him. “What’s long and hard and has cum in it?”

Carver sighed.

Anders smirked. “Cucumber.”

Hawke blinked in surprise, and ahead of her she heard Carver laugh. “Oh, Maker’s balls,” he said. “Anders, you’re the first person who has actually answered that joke correctly.”

Anders shrugged as they continued to descend the staircase. “I wasn’t raised in a barn, you know. Well, let me rephrase that. I was raised in barn, until I burned it down on accident. After that I was raised in the Fereldan Circle, and believe me, we had a lot of dirty jokes.”

“Try me,” said Hawke. She had forgotten that she had begun telling jokes for Anders’ benefit and now she just wanted to one-up him. “Tell me the worst one you’ve got.”

“The worst… are you sure?” Anders was grinning.

“Yes.” Hawke was nearly glaring at him now.

“Why did my spunk cross the road?”

“Ugh!” Carver groaned. “I’m not listening.”

Hawke thought. And thought. And had to admit that she didn’t think she’d actually ever heard this one. “Alright. You win. Why?”

Anders shrugged innocently. “Must’ve worn the wrong socks.”

“ _Uggghhh_ ,” Carver moaned.

“I thought you weren’t listening!” Anders called back.

Hawke, though, was impressed. Someone had actually trumped her in the dirty joke department. She was still thinking about this as they made it to the bottom of the staircase and they all glanced around in the dark. “This place is a fucking mess,” Carver said. He brushed his hand across a box, sending years of dust buildup in every direction. He coughed.

Shadow was ahead of them, sniffing the walls and creaky old doors. Hawke watched the dog closely. He would likely be the first indication if anything was amiss.

Anders still had his ball of light summoned in his hand, and that lit the way somewhat as they rummaged around in old moldy crates and drawers. A few moments passed and nothing of significance happened. Then Hawke discovered some carefully folded papers in an envelope tucked into a shelf. She read the few opening lines, then whistled. “Hey, Carver. Lookie what I’ve found.”

Carver approached and Hawke handed him the will. His eyes widened as he scanned it in the dim light. “Well. That’s damning.”

“Isn’t it, though?” said Hawke. “I bet Uncle will love to see it. Let’s take it to him, shall we?”

They turned to leave, but as soon as they had done so Shadow rushed in front of them, barking, and no sooner had he done so when Hawke heard bootsteps coming from a side corridor.

Bandits. Five of them. Led by one in front with a nasty looking club. “Well. What’ve we got here?” he asked. “What are you tryin’ to make off with?”

“Just these papers that you won’t be needing,” said Hawke. If she could get away without a fight, she’d prefer it, although wasn’t getting her hopes up.

“How about you don’t decide what we do and don’t need?” asked the man with the club. “How about you give it back before we leave you dead here, hmm?”

Hawke had had enough. She had no doubts the three of them and Shadow could take five Darktown scroungers. She sighed. “Have it your way,” she said, and she made as though she were about to hand over the papers— and then cast a fireball at the group.

Things went quick after that. The men stumbled around, in pain, as Shadow leaped on them, snarling, and Carver sliced through one of the men his sword as though it were a kitchen knife through butter. Blood splattered onto the ground as Hawke whirled around, staff drawn, and sent a bolt of lightning through the nearest bandit, sending him crumpled to the floor.

She turned and made quick work of her next target, but then she felt piercing pain searing through her leg; the man on the floor had driven a dagger into her calf. She stumbled backwards— into Anders, who caught her and immediately began working warm healing magic into her. She both saw and felt the shining, soothing glow of his magic as she banged her staff into the head of the man at her feet and he fell over for good.

Then it was quiet. The five bandits were all either dead or dying, and Shadow and Carver were soaked in blood. Hawke’s leg was, too, although it felt considerably better than it had moments ago.

“Are you alright?” Anders asked, concerned.

“Mmhmm,” said Hawke. Worse had happened to her.

Shadow ran up to her and licked her anxiously, wagging his tail, and Hawke patted his head. “Come on guys. Let’s go.”

“To my clinic,” said Anders firmly. “I can only do so much and you need to get that bandaged.”

He was right, of course. She knew that much, at least. “Alright,” said Hawke.

“I’m gonna go wash this shit off me,” said Carver, looking at himself with no small amount of distaste. “I’ll meet you back at home, sis.” He beckoned to Shadow. “Come on, boy.”

The two of them were up the stairs in a few leaps and bounds, and Hawke went to follow, but Anders was holding her back. “Can you walk?” He asked. “Did you need help?”

Hawke tested her leg. “I'm fine,” she said. _It’s cute how worried he is, though,_ she thought to herself.

“Be careful,” said Anders. “You don’t want to make it worse.”

“I’ll be careful,” promised Hawke, and she gently removed herself from Anders’ worried grasp and headed up the stairs. Anders followed close behind.

 

They were soon at the clinic. Anders told her to sit on the table, and Hawke refused at first but eventually acquiesced simply because it would put the poor man at ease. He rolled up her pant leg and gently cleaned the blood off the area with a rag and warm water, then applied a salve made out of elfroot and prophet’s laurel, and finally wrapped a clean bandage around the wound. Hawke watched him as he worked. He was terribly gentle and he had long, nimble fingers and he paused every so often to ask Hawke if anything he was doing was hurting. “I won’t hold back from telling you if anything hurts, you know,” she said. But truthfully his healing magic had worked out most of the initial pain. She’d been touched by healing magic before, of course— Bethany had used it often during childhood scrapes— but Anders’ felt different. It was warmer, brighter, and at the same time sharper and more direct. He clearly had some knowledge of anatomy from his time in the Circle and he could diagnose an injury and send his magic right to the source in mere seconds. He was very skilled. And he would be very, very handy to have around on any future missions.

He finished his work and tugged her pant leg back down. “It’ll take a few days to heal,” he said. “So be gentle on it.”

“I know,” said Hawke. “Oh, Anders, before I go, I had something to say.”

He looked up at her. _Maker, he had beautiful golden eyes, though._ “Hmm?”

“What did the sign on the closed brothel say?”

Anders grinned. “It said ‘beat it’.”

“Damn you,” said Hawke.

 

“There you are,” said Carver as Hawke walked in to their Uncle’s home. “What took you so long?”

Hawke shrugged. “Anders insisted on cleaning me up. What’s going on?”

“I gave Uncle and Mother the will. They read all those nice tidbits on how Grandfather Amell actually left the estate to us. Mother’s going to try to petition the Viscount to get it back.”

“Aww, you couldn’t wait for me to get home so I could witness the drama? I’m hurt,” said Hawke.

“There wasn’t much to miss. More arguing and shouting.” Carver shrugged. “What do you think? Think we might actually get the estate back? We might not even have to go into the Deep Roads after all.”

Hawke walked to the desk and rummaged around the letters she’d received over the day. Included among them were freelance job offers. “You know me,” she said. “I don’t like to leave things to other people.”

“Other people aren’t Hawkes, huh?” said Carver as he pulled an animal bone out of his pocket and tossed it to Shadow.

Hawke nodded. “Other people aren’t Hawkes.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maker's breath, Anders needs to stop smiling or he's gonna be the death of Hawke.

“I still can’t believe you’re just walking into the fucking Gallows,” said Carver. He and Hawke were, in fact, walking into the Gallows as he spoke. “This entire place is crawling with templars.”

“You _do_ know that the more you talk about it, the less normal we appear, right?” said Hawke. She, herself, had no real fears. She’d been dodging templars her whole life. No one in Kirkwall but her closest friends and associates and a few people who were now dead knew that she was a mage. And so long as no one brought it up, it could stay that way.

Still, she didn’t particularly _enjoy_ going to the Gallows. She didn’t like templars and she especially didn’t like Tranquil and the way they would stare at her with their soulless eyes. One of them looked at her now, as she passed, and it reminded her of Karl and that reminded her of the tears in Anders’ eyes as he killed his lover, and Hawke rubbed her temple to try to get the memory to pass.

She was here on business, of course. She had made friends with a merchant named Solivitus who paid her a decent amount of coin for bringing him rare, raw materials which he would work into potions. She passed him some of these materials now, in a package, which he took gratefully and in return he pressed a bag of coins into her hand. Hawke shook them out into her palm and counted them. They were making a decent amount of coin lately and she imagined it was only a matter of time before they’d have enough money for the expedition they were trying to fund.

They turned to leave. Hawke may not have been afraid of the templars, but they unnerved her nonetheless.

They were on their way out when Hawke saw a sign that she hadn’t seen before, hanging on a post:

“NOTICE to all law-abiding citizens of Kirkwall: the Templar Order is currently seeking information on a so-called Mage Underground. A generous reward is available for any who bring reliable information to Knight-Captain Cullen.”

“…huh,” said Hawke.

“Well, that’s just great,” said Carver. “A lot of people are going to be all over that reward. I feel sorry for anyone in this Underground.”

They left without saying anything else, but Hawke had a hunch that she knew someone who was going to want to hear about this.

 

There was a line of patients at Anders’ clinic when Hawke arrived later that day. They had scrapes, broken bones, coughs, and sneezes— and Anders healed every one without prejudice or thought of coin. He looked tired when Hawke let herself in, and he was thoroughly exhausted after his fourth or fifth job. He kept pushing himself, though, without a break, and finally Hawke couldn’t stand it anymore and she fetched him a glass of water from a pitcher on his desk and approached him. “Anders,” she said.

Anders didn’t look up at her. He was busy examining the woman on his table. “Oh, Hawke,” he said. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“You’re going to kill yourself if you keep working like this,” she said. “And you can’t exactly heal people when you’re dead.”

Anders shook his head. “I’ll be fine,” he said, and he channeled healing magic through his worn hands and into his patient, who then sat up and thanked him profusely before leaving.

It had taxed him, though, casting so many spells in so short an amount of time, and he stumbled back and shut his eyes as soon as the woman had left, and Hawke put a hand on those dusty feathers on his coat and handed him the glass of water. “Alright, no. Take a break. I’m serious.”

Anders was too tired to protest and he gratefully took the water and gulped it down. Afterward he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up. The line of patients was gone and Hawke was shutting the doors. “Hawke,” he said, “I’m not closed yet.”

“You are for the next twenty minutes,” said Hawke. “Sit down. I have to talk to you about something. It’s important.”

He must have trusted her, because he sat down in the closest chair. Hawke pulled up her own chair and sat opposite him. Anders looked ragged and worn and his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. He looked up at her with an expression very much like that of a hurt puppy, and Hawke wanted to smack him for it. Gently, of course.

“Do templars come down here often?” Hawke asked him, getting straight to business.

“Sometimes,” said Anders. “The locals keep them away from here, though. They like me. They know what I do. They know they have no one else who can do what I do. The templars have sent recruits down here before, and they leave all roughed up. I… think they see fetching me as being too much of a pain in the arse. Who knows how long that will last, though.” He forced a smile.

“Are there many other mages out there? Apostates, I mean? Like you and I? Hiding?”

“Of course,” said Anders. He sat up straighter, and his voice gained an edge. “There are dozens, maybe hundreds of us in this city alone. Hunted, constantly, just for wanting to have a normal life like any other citizen of Thedas.” He shook his head, disgusted.

“Anders,” said Hawke, “I found something today. In the Gallows.”

He snapped his head around to look at her. “In the Gallows? Maker’s breath, what were you doing in the Gallows? The templars there are itching to arrest anyone who even looks like a mage. You should stay as far away from there as possible.”

“Oh, stop,” said Hawke. “You’re as bad as Carver. I put on my Murder Face when I go. Everyone there is scared of me.”

“I don’t want…” Anders’ voice trailed off, as though he was changing his mind about what he wanted to say, and he cleared his throat instead. “Anyway. What did you find there?”

“I’m going to assume you know about something called a Mage Underground?”

One nervous glance from Anders was enough to tell Hawke what she needed to know. He did.

“Well,” Hawke continued, “The templars know about it too. They’re offering a reward to anyone who gives them information. They have a sign and everything.”

“Shit,” said Anders. He stood up and began to pace, nervously running a hand through his golden hair. “Shit,” he said again. He turned and looked down at Hawke, suddenly, who was still sitting. “Have you ever been in a Circle?”

Hawke shook her head. “My father was, until he got away. He taught my sister and I to control our magic, and we just… grew up like that. We’ve always been apostates.”

Anders let out a little sigh. “You don’t know how lucky you had it,” he said. “In the Circle, nothing is yours. Everything belongs to the Circle. _You_ are property of the Circle. You have no privacy. You have no choice in anything. Not in what you eat, not in what you wear, not in where you go. Not even which bucket you shit into. You’re barely of age when they throw you in the Fade to battle a demon. It’s called your Harrowing. Do you know what happens if you don’t pass? You’re possessed by a demon and the templars kill you. And if they think the chance for that is high, they’ll just bypass that altogether and make you Tranquil. And after all that, do you know how they punish you? Do you know how they punish you? They—” his voice was choked, and he stopped pacing now so he could sit back down in his chair. “They…” His voice trailed off and he rubbed his wrist nervously with his thumb. Finally, he continued, “They put you in a cell. In the dark. And they forget about you. For months. And they—” he shut his eyes, and for a moment Hawke thought he might be crying— but if he was, he pushed it back down as anger bubbled back to the surface again. “—they— they think this is normal. It’s torture and they think it’s normal.” He sighed, then, and hung his head. “If this was a few years ago I’d have left Kirkwall long ago. I’d have just, you know. Buggered off somewhere. I’d be in Rivain now, maybe. Or Antiva. Or… somewhere. Anywhere, really. I can hide. I know how to hide. But no. I’ve seen things get worse and I’m… I’m not leaving. Every day there are more young mages, not much older than children, being thrown into their Harrowings. And every day there are innocent mages accused of being malificarum and lobotomized for it. Mages with friends, with families, with _futures_ that are being taken from them. And if I run, if I hide, if I sit here and do nothing, then I am just as guilty as the templars.”

He was, in that moment, all fury and flames and compassion and raw belief, as though the ideal of conviction had taken human form, and it was terribly compelling and terribly convincing. Hawke had, for her part, not really put much thought into any of this before. Oh, the Circle and templars were something to be avoided, that was for sure. She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she one of the lucky ones. But it wasn’t exactly something she thought about on a regular basis. Her life was about avoiding the templars, not actively running from them.

But now, here, Anders was bringing them into something that was larger than the both of them. Much, much larger. And Hawke, well— wasn’t that always how it seemed to work? Wasn’t she always getting dragged into things that were Too Big, Too Important?

Such was her lot in life, perhaps.

“So. What can I do to help?” she said, and as she said it she knew that it was against her better judgment. But she couldn’t _not_ ask. He had bared his soul to her, and oh, oh how she was a sap and oh how she thought she might regret this later.

Anders looked up at her. “You want to help?” He said it as though she was nuts for even suggesting it; as though he couldn’t process what she had said.

“…yes,” said Hawke. “Is that a problem?”

“N— no,” said Anders. “Of course not. I just… I wasn’t expecting it. You… you have your own problems and I…” He paused, and Hawke saw that there was more. He was wrestling with something, inside. But then it passed and he looked up and he was smiling and _Hawke loved that so much_ and he said “I would appreciate any help you could give.”

His eyes were an endless pool of gratitude as he said it and _Maker’s fucking breath he needed to stop with that_ , but he was just so _sincere_ that Hawke wanted nothing more than to take him somewhere, far away, where the world couldn’t hurt him anymore and she could wrap him up in a blanket and give him tea and tell him to _rest_ because he needed it. Maker, he deserved it. That wasn’t going to happen, of course, so she was absolutely planning on doing the second best thing, which was helping him. “If there’s anything I can do, I mean,” she said, and she shrugged. “Changing the world sounds like a big project.” She looked away, suddenly. Those eyes could see into her soul, she thought, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that yet.

Anders laughed. “I guess it is,” he said. “But actually— there is something you could help me with.”

“Shoot.”

Anders looked thoughtful, as if he was trying to decide how much he wanted to say. Finally he said, “I’ve received word of several apostates in hiding in a cave outside Kirkwall. I want to help them escape. I have a plan for it— they can escape along the coast, where ships will be waiting for them— but I don’t want to go alone. Not only is there a threat of templars, but there is also a threat of demons. Mages who are stressed are easy prey for demons. Another reason why the Circles do more harm than good.” His eyes were hard as he said that last sentence, but they softened as he looked up at Hawke. “I… thank you. Really. That you’re even willing to help means a lot to me.”

“When will the ships be ready?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

Hawke stood. “I’ll see you then. Don’t work too hard.”

 

That night, Hawke, Carver, Isabela, and Varric were all at the Hanged Man drinking and playing Wicked Grace. “So, Carver,” said Hawke as she put down her mug. “Want to help me and Anders tomorrow?”

“What is it with you and Anders lately?” Carver was glaring at Varric, who had just bested him— again— at a hand.

“We mages stick together,” said Hawke, reaching across the table to draw a card. “Much like us Hawkes.”

“Carver, dear, there’s something you should know,” said Isabela suddenly. She’d had more alcohol than the rest of the table combined and was still the most coherent of them all. “And that is this: when a boy and a girl like each other very much…”

“Okay, we’re talking about my sister, thanks,” said Carver.

“It’s not like that,” said Hawke. “And anyways, I thought Anders likes men?”

“Oh. Oh honey.” Isabela giggled. “Anders and I have a bit of a history. He butters his bread on both sides, if you get my drift. With great gusto, I might add.”

Oh. Well. “ _Anyways_ ,” said Hawke, suddenly wanting to change the subject. “Carver. You should come.”

“Why?” Carver was still looking furtively at Varric.

“Remember what we were just saying? About how Hawkes stick together?” Hawke tossed the Angel of Death card down on the table, and everyone laid down their hands. Hawke won.

“Mmm. You cheat almost as well as I do,” said Isabela.

“No cheating here,” said Hawke. “That was all skill.”

“And if you believe that,” said Varric, “Then I’ve got several fine dwarven crafts direct from Orzammar to sell you.”

Carver was muttering. “Fine, I’ll go,” he said. “To… wherever… we’re going.” He laid his head down on the table.

“For now, though, you should probably go to bed,” said Hawke.

“This thing isn’t happening in the morning, is it, Hawke?” asked Varric. “I don’t think Junior there is going to be in much shape to do anything for a while.”

“ 's fine,” Carver mumbled into the table.

Hawke lifted him out of the chair with one arm and she and Carver managed to stumble home, which, fortunately for them, was just around the corner. Carver passed out the second he’d walked in, and Hawke changed herself into robes and then settled down in her own bed. In the process of doing so she saw the bandage that Anders had applied to her leg a few days earlier, and carefully she unwrapped it. The wound, as it turned out, had almost completely healed. She didn’t even think it would leave a scar. Impressed, Hawke set the bandage aside and curled up under a thin blanket. Her mind was fuzzy from drink, and it wasn’t long before fell asleep.

She was thinking about Anders’ smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% sure how happy I am with this chapter but here it is. The next chapter should be more action-y. Thanks for all the comments so far <3


	6. Diamond Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke discovers she has... _feelings_ for a certain mage. Pesky, pesky feelings.

Hawke decided to bring Varric and Carver with her to meet Anders the next day. Everyone else except for Fenris was busy, and Fenris, well— she wasn’t going to bring him along to a mission to help apostates. He was wary around mages— albeit for good reason, having spent a good chunk of his life enslaved to Tevinter magisters— and Hawke didn’t want to stress the poor man any more than he already was. Besides, he hadn’t met Anders yet, and she had a bad feeling that their first meeting would probably end in actual bloodshed. She’d be careful when she introduced them. Her friends, she’d decided, were going to get along and work together, and that was final.

They met up at Anders’ clinic that afternoon, and he was waiting for them when they arrived. He was nervous and fidgeting, but his eyes lit up when Hawke walked in. “Hey,” said Hawke. “Miss me?”

“Always,” said Anders, smiling, and his voice had that sarcastic bite to it that it had sometimes, but Hawke couldn’t help but feel warm inside at that response anyway. She shook the feeling away.

“Maker, Blondie, is your place always this much of a mess?” This was Varric butting in.

“Oh, you know. I could hire a cleaning crew, but they’d probably die before they got here,” Anders joked. Other than his nerves, he seemed to be in a good mood. Hawke was happy about that.

“You all set?” Hawke asked. “Do we need anything else?”

“I’m ready,” said Anders. “Thank you, again, for helping. I appreciate it.”

“So what, exactly, are we doing again?” asked Carver.

Hawke sighed. “I told you this morning. You know, while you were puking your stomach out? Come on, we’ll explain on the way.”

The trek out to the cave was uneventful. They chose a route that would get them the fewest amount of interested stares from passersby, and they managed to make it there without seeing any templars.

Well, except for the one standing at the mouth of the cave.

“Oh, shit. Andraste’s fucking knickers.” It was, of course, Anders who spotted the templar first, and he immediately went and hid behind a nearby bush. Hawke narrowed her eyes and peered at the templar. She recognized him. His name was Ser Thrask, and he was one of the few templars who Hawke found vaguely tolerable. She didn’t know him very well, but he seemed to be the type of “nice guy” who would be easy enough to talk circles around. They were far enough away that he hadn’t noticed they were there yet, and anyway most of his attention seemed to be focused at the cave itself.

“So, uh,” said Carver, “Do we have any plans on how to handle this guy? Or are you just going to wing it the way you wing the rest of your life?”

“Hey, I’ve been a successful winger so far,” said Hawke. “Winger? Wingist? Wingificator?”

“Wing-Commander Hawke of the Wing It Order,” said Varric.

“Ha ha. Very funny.” Carver was unimpressed. He looked back at where Anders was hiding. “And what about your friend there?”

“I can get him in too,” said Hawke. “Trust me.”

“Okay, well, you do realize that if you can’t pull this off things could go very badly for him? For both of you?”

“I can pull it off,” said Hawke, and she turned around and approached the bush that Anders was cowering behind. “Anders, do you know that particular templar?”

Anders shook his head. “No, but I’m sure he knows of me.”

“And if he’s never seen you before, then he doesn’t know what you look like. Come on. I can get you in there. Apostates need help.”

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

“I did, actually. Crazy is my middle name,” said Hawke.

Anders looked up at her rather shrewdly. “Do you have a first?”

“Oh yes. My first name is Reallyfucking. One word. My full name is Reallyfucking Crazy Hawke.”

She said that specifically to get Anders to smile, because she loved that, and she was soon rewarded with a snort and the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. Mission accomplished.

But then he was serious again. “This could go very wrong,” he said.

“It could,” Hawke agreed. “But it won’t. Trust me.”

Anders looked as though he was wrestling with this thought, and finally submitted. “Alright,” he said. “Just… please don’t go _too_ ‘really fucking crazy’?”

“Oh don’t you worry," said Hawke. "I will.”

She strode confidently past Varric and Carver, with Anders on her heels— “just follow my lead, boys,” she said as she walked past— and she approached Ser Thrask as though she didn’t have a care in the world. In fact, she actually called out to him to get his attention. “Hey! How’s it going?”

Thrask looked over at her with surprise. “Serah Hawke, is it? I’ve seen you doing some work for men in the Gallows. Solivitius says he couldn’t live without you.”

“Oh yes, Solivitus and I are basically best friends at this point,” said Hawke. “In fact, my associates and I were just here to collect some more things for him when we came across you. Fancy that, I suppose?”

“Well,” said Thrask, “I’m certainly fortunate, because I could use the help of capable people. That is, if you’re willing to help?”

“I’m always willing to help,” said Hawke. “Just say the word. What do you need?”

Thrask put his hands on his hip. “We’ve received word of apostates in here which the Knight-Commander would like to see returned to the Circle. But desperate mages tend to be very dangerous mages, and I’m worried this will just end in death all around. But you’re a neutral party, and if you, perhaps, could try talking to them…”

“Say no more,” said Hawke. “Several mages returned to the Circle, coming right up.” She motioned to the others and they all headed into the cave without any further incident— Anders included.

Once they were out of Thrask’s earshot, Varric whistled. “Hawke, you have one silver tongue.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” said Hawke.

“Hawke,” said Anders, “You aren’t… we aren’t really going to hand mages over to the Circle, are we?”

Hawke paused, and for the briefest moment she felt vexed that he actually seemed to think she’d turn on him, but then she realized that he had very good reason for not being able to trust her. The poor man had been burned so often in his life.

“Anders,” she said, “I’m not going to come all the way out here just to condemn some innocent mages to a life in prison.”

Anders looked at her then with such gratitude, with such genuine fondness, that Hawke thought she might melt if she didn’t look away. So she did, and coughed. “Anyway,” she said. “What are we looking for, here? Do you know these people?”

“I haven’t met most of them,” Anders admitted. “But they know I’m coming to help them.”

“So let me get this straight; we’re helping a templar help mages,” said Carver.

“Oh, the templar doesn’t know that we’re helping mages,” said Hawke. “And he doesn’t have to know.”

“You’ve got a plan for this, Chuckles?” asked Varric.

“Always,” said Hawke.

So they ventured a bit deeper into the cave. It held little of interest, except for some giant spiders (”Always the Maker-damned spiders,” Hawke quipped,) but it wasn’t long before they stumbled upon the tell-tale signs of mages: a few empty lyrium bottles scattered about; ferns that had been burned or frozen in unnatural ways, and, here or there, spots of blood.

“Blood mages,” muttered Carver. “So that’s great.”

“Not necessarily,” Anders spoke up. “They might have been injured.”

“Until we have proof of that,” said Carver, “I’m counting on blood mages.”

Anders sighed but didn’t say anything further, and that was just as well because Hawke thought she heard something up ahead and signaled for the others to quiet down. They did so, and she and Carver looked at each other and nodded in silent understanding. Carver reached for his sword.

Anders approached Hawke, his voice low. “Please,” he said. “If we can avoid bloodshed…”

“I know,” said Hawke. She hoped her voice was coming off as soothing and not as rushed or anxious. But she had to be on her guard, mages or not. It was Kirkwall, after all, and as endearing as Anders’ optimism was, she had to expect the worst.

Carefully they turned a corner— in time to see someone scampering away from them. Hawke called out to them, but then another man in robes appeared from behind some debris and in one quick move he sliced his wrist open with a knife and then he cast a spell as blood poured down his arm.

Hawke didn’t need to think twice. She sent a burst of cold from her hands, knocking the man down, but a rage demon rose in his place, burning with flames and fury.

Carver was on it immediately, and behind him Varric had his crossbow and Anders was casting his own spells and Hawke was focused on the man on the ground lest he get back up and attempt to try something. He did, and Hawke was on him again, but not before he choked out a few final words. “Templar sympathizers!” He spat. “You’re a mage— you should know— blood magic or no, they’ll come after us—”

Hawke paused, and in that pause Carver shoved a sword through the man’s heart. The rage demon was gone, a pile of ash, and the man was on the ground, dark crimson blood pooling beneath him.

Behind Hawke, Anders sighed. “I hate to admit it, but he’s right. The templars don’t care whether we’re actually blood mages or not. They want us all dead, or tranquil.”

“He attacked us first,” Carver pointed out. He was wiping his sword on a nearby fern.

“Can you blame him?” asked Anders. “He’s lived his whole life in fear. Can you blame him for attacking first?”

Hawke felt conflicted; she wanted to step into the conversation on account of being a mage but also felt as though it wasn’t her place to do so, having never been in a Circle. She decided it would be best to change the subject. “Anyways,” she said. “There might be more blood mages around. So keep your guard up.”

They headed off in the direction of where they’d seen the first person run off to. That particular direction led them off into a thin and dark passageway. That’s when Hawke suddenly remembered Anders’ claustrophobia and before she really knew what she was thinking she turned to reach for him, taking him by the wrist.

“…Hawke?” Anders asked. He sounded confused.

Hawke suddenly realized what she had done and then realized that this was all probably very awkward. Unfortunately, it would be even more awkward to change her mind now. So she decided to do one of the things she did best when she was in a sticky situation, which was to turn it into terrible flirting. “Surprise! Tricked you into coming into coming down here in the dark so you’d get scared and have to cling to me for protection. It was my nefarious plan all along.”

“You’re the worst, you know that?” Carver said from ahead of them.

Hawke heard Anders chuckle from beside her. “Well, I won’t complain,” he said.

As they went on in the dark, Hawke was gripped with the desire to push her hand down, just a bit, and entwine her fingers with his. Oh, she wanted to. He was terribly, _terribly_ cute and she had no doubt that if she did that he would blush and probably pull away and that would just be even cuter. Should she do it? She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. She—

Something was moving in front of them. Carver readied his sword and Anders reached for his staff, breaking Hawke’s grip on his wrist in the process. Silently she mourned her lost opportunity as she reached for her own staff.

They ended up not having to use their weapons. The person in front of them was a young woman, much younger than Hawke or even Carver, and she held up her arms as they approached. “Please, sers,” she said. “Are you with the templars? We’ll go back if we must. Just don’t kill us.”

“We’re not with the templars,” said Hawke. “It’s alright.”

“Are you here with the Mage Underground?” Anders spoke up.

“Yes, ser,” said the woman. “We know there are ships waiting. But there are templars outside, and—”

“We’ll take care of them,” said Hawke.

“Whoa,” said Carver suddenly. “I don’t know if killing templars is a good idea.”

“We aren’t going to kill them,” said Hawke, sounding for all the world as though she had already been through this a hundred times. “I have a plan.”

“Hawke,” said Carver. “Think about this for a few minutes. It might just be better for them to return to the Circle. The templars might still catch them. If not now, then later. And the punishment would probably be worse next time.”

“Please, ser,” said the woman. “You don’t know what it’s like. They beat us, and they…” she looked away, shameful. “They force themselves on us…”

Beside her Hawke could see Anders’ face harden and his eyes begin to light with blue. She reached out, quickly, and took his wrist again. It wasn’t that he wasn't right to be angry. It was that she didn’t know the extent of Justice’s abilities yet, and she didn’t want to risk finding out here. Taking his wrist seemed to startle him, at least, and the glow in his eyes subsided as Hawke said firmly, “We’re not making you go back to the Circle.”

Next to her Anders was looking down at Hawke’s hand on his wrist, and then when he heard Hawke speak he looked up at her with something akin to glowing pride. _Maker, Anders, raise your standards_ , she thought to herself.

Carver shook his head. He, too, had been convinced. “Alright,” he said. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Hawke.”

“Well,” said Varric, “So long as she can trick that templar again I don’t see why this won’t be smooth sailing.”

“How many more of you are there?” Hawke asked the mage. She was still holding Anders’ wrist. She got the impression that he was still gazing at her fondly, and she was desperately trying to repress the urge to look over and check.

“About a dozen of us,” said the mage. “Please… the blood mage you killed… none of us wanted anything to do with him. I promise the rest of us aren’t dangerous.”

“I trust you,” said Anders now, his voice soft. Oh, how trusting he was! And Hawke didn’t know if that made _him_ a fool or if it made _her_ a fool for finding it so very endearing. “We’re going to help you. Don’t worry.”

There was… something, Hawke found, about standing there with Anders by her side, agreeing to help the disenfranchised. It felt electric. It felt right. And that, she thought, was terribly saccharine, but she would have to think about that later. For now, there was a templar to trick.

“Here,” she said. “Gather the others and follow a little ways behind me. I’ll let you know when it’s safe.” She turned around, and that’s when Anders pulled his arm from her, and the two of them looked at each other and something, _something_ seemed to pass between them and when Anders realized that he quickly looked down to the ground. It was too dark to tell if he was blushing or not, but Hawke got the impression that he probably was.

They were quiet as they headed back to the front of the cave. Anders took up the rear to help the apostates along, although Hawke wondered if he did so partially to remove himself from her vicinity. She shoved it all from her mind. _Feelings_ were not exactly a thing she wanted to be having right now. She focused instead on the daylight in front of her as she exited the cave and— oh, _shit_. There were more templars. Ser Thrask had apparently ran into some friends while they were preoccupied. Hawke guessed he wasn’t terribly happy about it, either, judging from his expression.

“So… game plan?” Asked Varric.

Hawke took a deep breath. _Murder face_ , she thought. _She had this_. She stepped out into the sunlight.

One of the templars, who appeared to be in charge, was grilling Thrask. “I want those mages back, dead or alive,” he said. He saw Hawke, suddenly, and turned to face her. “Who are you?”

“I’m your new best friend,” said Hawke.

The templar quirked an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“Your pal Thrask here wisely asked me to go in after the mages myself. And it turns out they’re all blood mages! One of them sacrificed himself to try to save his buddies. So I killed him. He’s still in there, if you want to go look. The others escaped out a side passage into the woods. They were too many for me, but if your men are quick I’m sure you can catch them.”

He eyed Hawke suspiciously, and for a moment Hawke wasn’t sure if he would buy the story. But then he nodded. “Well. Thank you for your service, then.” He turned to other templars. “Men! Into the woods!”

The new templars headed off, and Hawke approached Thrask. “You don’t like them, I take it?”

Thrask shook his head. “This should’ve been my job, not theirs. The Knight-Commander is… augh.” He rubbed his head and looked at Hawke. “Thank you for trying, though. I appreciate your help, Serah Hawke.” And with that he followed the others into the forest.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Varric. “How’d you learn to lie like that?”

“Stealing cookies from the baker, mostly,” said Carver.

“Now now,” said Hawke. “I don’t lie. I just exaggerate.” She turned and headed back into the cave. The apostates were huddled a way back, as was Anders. “The templars are gone,” she told them.

Anders looked up at her. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He nodded and motioned to the others. A minute later they were all out of the cave and headed up the coast to where ships were waiting to take them out of Kirkwall. Once they were all out of their range of vision, Anders turned to look at Hawke with a significant amount of awe. “I have no idea how you pulled that off,” he said, “But, I… thank you.”

Hawke looked at him, _really_ looked at him. The sun was beginning to set and the golden rays of sunlight were highlighting his hair. He was distractingly beautiful and this brought back the _feelings_ that Hawke had had in the cave, and she wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with them.

Well. Later. She’d deal with them later.

“Hanged Man, anyone?” she turned and began the walk back to Kirkwall.

 

Anders, as it turned out, opted not to go to the Hanged Man. Justice didn’t let him get drunk, he said. Hawke assumed that was true but also wondered how much of his decision to go straight back to his clinic had to do with the fact that perhaps he, too, was now taken with _feelings_. She kept thinking about this as Varric told the newly-spun tale of Hawke and the Templars to Isabela and Merrill, exaggerating as he went, and eventually she was too distracted to stick around.

No, she was going to go see him. She was just drunk enough to want to go see him. If there was _something_ , if there were indeed _feelings_ , she was going to go face them now and not wait until they spun out of control. And if her hunch was wrong, well— no harm done.

She excused herself by saying she was tired and went directly to Darktown.

She had been there enough times by now that she could navigate the dirty alleys and tunnels in the dark, and the lanterns were lit outside the clinic indicating that Anders was there. Hawke headed towards those lanterns as though they were a beacon, and then paused outside to compose herself. She didn’t even know how she was going to go about this at this point. She figured she’d wing it. _Wing-Commander Hawke of the Wing It Order._

She knocked on the door.

“I’m afraid I’m closed for the night, unless it’s an emergency.” The response was quick.

“Anders?”

Silence.

Hawke waited a moment, then spoke up again. “Anders?”

That’s when Anders opened the door. He looked oddly disheveled. Had he been sleeping? He was in his coat. “Hawke,” he said. There was a quaver in his voice. “What are you doing here? Are you alright?”

“I, uh, wanted to talk,” Hawke replied. “Is that okay?”

“Y… yes, of course,” said Anders. He was terribly nervous. _Feelings_. He reached up with a hand and scratched his neck absent-mindedly as he pushed the door open further and Hawke came in.

He closed the door behind him and was slow to turn around and face her, but when he did, he was the first to talk. “I, uh… I wanted to thank you, again. For earlier. Not many people would stand up for mages the way you did.” His eyes were warm, liquid gold in the dim light. “You didn’t have to do what you did, but… well. You did. And I appreciate it.” He looked away now. “If you ever, uh, need help…”

“Anders.”

Anders shut his eyes at the sound of her voice saying his name, and that’s when Hawke knew. She was right. _Feelings_.

“Anders…” she took a step closer, but that’s when his eyes snapped open again and he turned away. “Hawke. You are… a remarkable person. But we can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“I’m an apostate.”

“…I… don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m an apostate too.” Hawke couldn’t help but laugh a bit at this.

“No, you don’t understand.” Anders was looking at the ground, at the wall, at the desk, anywhere but at her. “I’m on the run. I’ve got the Wardens after me and I’ve got the Circle after me. I’m on a mission. I’ve— I’ve got a spirit living in my head, for Andraste’s sake. Maybe if this had been a few years ago, but…” he looked at her now, finally, with those despairing eyes, and Hawke was _almost_ drunk enough to grab him and press him against the wall and kiss him and resoundingly win the argument in her favor.

Almost— but not quite.

The _feelings_ bubbled up inside her again and she shoved them back down. It had been worth a shot, anyway. “It’s alright,” she said. “I understand.”

“You do?” Anders sounded relieved. “I don’t want to lose your friendship, Hawke.”

“You won’t,” said Hawke. No, she was keeping this odd and adorable man. Perhaps not in the way she wanted, but in some fashion, at least, she would keep him.

He smiled at her, again, and this time Hawke decided she had to leave because the feelings were coming back and no, no that simply would not do.

“Well,” she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Or the next day. Or whenever you need templars bashed in?”

Anders laughed. _Stop laughing, you’re making it worse._ “So pretty much every day, then?”

“Hey, if I get to see your feathery ass every day, I’m not going to complain.” It wasn’t until it was out of her mouth that Hawke realized it was a flirt and she probably shouldn’t have said it directly after their little discussion. Then she figured, fuck it. She was drunk anyway. Yep. That was her excuse.

Hawke walked home. She told herself the whole way that she was a stone-cold bitch who didn’t have feelings. _That_ was a lie for Varric.

Fortunately, her dreams that night had absolutely _nothing_ to do with irritatingly cute apostate mages, and she felt a little better the next morning.

_Fuck feelings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this chapter, hopefully you all enjoyed it. As always, thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke discovers that Anders is still cute, so cute. But are any of us surprised by this realization, really?

Hawke did soon wind up in a bed that wasn’t hers.

It was Isabela’s.

They were at the Hanged Man about a week later and they were very drunk and Isabela— making it clear that it was fun only, nothing more— dragged Hawke upstairs and proceeded to show her a very good time. Isabela complimented her, afterwards, and then asked “So why aren’t you showing these tricks to Anders yet?”

“Anders?” Hawke pretended to act surprised, but knew she probably failed miserably at doing so.

“Listen, honey…” Isabela propped herself up on a pillow. "I’ve seen the looks you two give each other when you think the other isn’t looking. That boy is smitten. And so are you.”

Hawke felt a tiny bit annoyed. She hadn’t seen Anders very much since the incident a week prior, and she thought she’d been doing an okay job pushing the whole thing out of her head. Now it was all coming back, of course. Pesky feelings. “I actually went to his place a few days ago,” she said, “And he said he wasn’t interested, so.” Hawke shrugged.

Isabela laughed. “Give him time, dear,” she said. “Give him time.”

 

Hawke, though, didn’t know if she wanted to give him time as much as she wanted to forget about him. Every time she saw him— every time he laughed or smiled or told a bad joke or made some sort of bold statement about mages— she could feel the feelings she had for him threatening to push themselves upon her again, and they were terribly, terribly distracting. Desperate to avoid these obnoxious thoughts, she occupied herself by throwing herself into freelance work and spending time with other companions. She did eventually introduce Fenris and Anders to each other, and as she suspected, the two of them… did not get along, to put it mildly. Later that night she found herself in the mansion that Fenris had “requisitioned” from Danarius. “Hawke,” he told her. “I know that you, yourself, are a mage. And you have proven yourself to be a capable one so far. But surely, you must understand why the Circles are necessary? I’ve told you what happened to them in Tevinter. This other mage you spend time with… I do not think he understands. The things he asks for are not far from the things the magisters demanded. He could be just as dangerous.”

Hawke was always careful to be respectful when she talked to Fenris about magic. Or, at least, she tried to be. “Respectful” and “Hawke” did not always go together. “Fenris,” she said. “What happened to you in Tevinter was horrible and should not have happened. But it’s not just mages who can be bad people. Everyone can be a bad person.”

“Hmm.” Fenris poured her a drink of wine. He was courteous and intelligent and kind, and Hawke admired him for that. He had been through more than she figured she’d ever know. “That is true, but even so, mages are still inherently more dangerous. A cornered man is dangerous. A cornered mage is several times moreso.”

“But does that mean they should be treated differently, just for being who they are?” Hawke asked.

“It might, considering some of the things they have done,” said Fenris. “All I can tell you is what I have seen. And what I have seen is that most mages reach for power. And that power hurts people. Your friend may claim to have noble goals, but so do many who go astray.” He looked at Hawke directly. “Please be careful. I… am still learning to trust you. You are a mage, but you may be an exception.” He smiled, thinly, and Hawke found that a victory. She was hoping her friends would eventually come to trust each other, but trusting _her_ was a good start, at least.

It would take time with Fenris. He had been hurt so many times.

And so had Anders… Anders, Anders, she was thinking about Anders again and she shook her head a bit, to clear it, and reached forward to have a little more of that wine that Fenris had poured out for her.

 

She was at the home of a Dalish woman she didn’t know the next day. Well, first she was at Merrill’s house. Merrill was a sweetheart and Hawke had been taken with her immediately. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked Hawke. “I have water, and… water.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Hawke. “I just wanted to see how you were settling in. You… are settling in, right?”

“Oh yes,” said Merrill enthusiastically, “Although I’m still trying to adjust to life here in the city. It feels like there’s always something going on. Earlier today I saw some people grab a man and take his wallet. It was very exciting.”

“…someone got jumped outside your house and you think it was exciting?” Hawke couldn’t tell if she was concerned or utterly baffled.

“It’s very exciting compared to how things were with the clan,” Merrill said. “I’m still getting used to it all. Oh, I did meet another Dalish woman though!”

“A Dalish woman?" Hawke asked. "Here in the Alienage?”

“She’s very nice. But she's worried. I think she’s worried about her son? Actually, if you wouldn’t mind…” Merrill scratched her head nervously. “…perhaps you could talk to her. She’s one of the nicer people here, and I don’t like to see her so sad. I’m sure she would be very grateful for any help you could give her.”

Merrill looked terribly sincere and her eyes were wide and of course Hawke wasn’t going to turn her down, so she said “Of course I’ll help.”

“Oh! Thank you! You know, I wasn’t sure you would,” said Merrill. “But then, I suppose I’m still getting to know you. …I’m babbling, sorry. The woman’s name is Arianni. Her home is nearby. I can take you now, if you like?”

 

And that was how Hawke (and Merrill) wound up in Arianni’s home. The woman was distraught as she explained that her son Feynriel was a mage. She had hid him for a while, not wanting to send him to a Circle, but eventually he started having nightmares and that’s when she’d reluctantly called the templars. Feynriel had fled, and she hadn’t seen him since. “I’m worried,” Arianni admitted. Her hands were grasping the fabric of her robe, and she was twisting it nervously. “Kirkwall isn’t safe for a mage. Especially a young one who’s had no training. If you could find him, somewhere— talk to his father, perhaps, or Ser Thrask. I… I just want to help him. Talk him into going to the Circle. It’s not what I want, nor is it what he wants, but it might be what’s best.”

“Lethallan,” said Merrill, “I know Hawke will do what she can. She’s a mage, too, you know.”

Arianni looked up at her. “But not in the Circle?”

Hawke shook her head. “No. Not in the Circle.”

“Mages can live outside of the Circle,” said Merrill patiently. “I’m sure you remember from your time with the clan. Feynriel could, too. Perhaps he could live with the Dalish?”

“His father is human, and so he is human,” said Arianni, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Please… find him and do what you can.”

So Hawke was helping mages. Again. She figured Anders would be proud.

…maybe she’d find him and get him to help. He’d love that. It would put a smile on his face, and Maker damn her if she still didn’t love seeing him smile, even if there couldn’t ever be anything between them.

 

Anders was actually _humming_ when Hawke found him in his clinic.

Humming, and scooping some sort of pitiful looking broth into a bowl. _Maker, if that’s all he eats, no wonder he’s wasting away._

He turned, saw Hawke, and bowed deeply (and rather sarcastically). “Esteemed messere Hawke, terror of Lowtown. What brings you to my humble abode?”

“Oh, you know. I just wanted to see my favorite healer.” Hawke walked over to the table where he had his food and inspected it. “Maker’s breath. What do you put in that?”

“Only the finest ingredients, straight from Val Royeux,” said Anders. Then he shrugged. “Or, you know, the sketchy looking guy in the tunnel next door. Same difference. I’d wager Orlesians and sewer-dwellers both encounter the same amount of bullshit in an average day.”

“You need to eat something aside from, you know. Leftover chicken broth,” said Hawke. “I’d invite you to my place, but frankly, it’s not much of an improvement. At least we have bread, I guess. It’s a little hard, but…”

“That’s what she said.”

Hawke looked at him pointedly and smirked. “How old are you, again?”

“Old enough.” Anders said it with mock disdain, and he crossed his arms. “You didn’t come all the way here just to poke at my food, did you?”

“You didn’t make enough for two? I’m shocked, Anders! You should be expecting me by now.” Hawke picked up his soup bowl, stuck a finger in it, and then put it in her mouth. Eugh. The broth was thin and almost completely tasteless. Okay, no, she was going to have to get him some real food. She had no idea where she was going to find some, but she’d figure that out later.

“Did you really just stick your finger in there?” Anders said.

“Now _that_ ,” said Hawke, turning to him, “Is what she said.”

Anders snorted and Hawke loved it. “Alright, you win,” he chuckled. “You can have my food. I’ll make more.”

“Oh no, we’re going out to eat.” Hawke put the bowl back down on the table.

“What? We are?”

“Oh yes. Well, first we’re going to help an apostate mage. You like doing that, don’t you? But then after that we’re getting you some real food. It’ll be like a dinner date.”

“A… oh.” Anders looked away, his cheeks red, and Hawke chastised herself a bit. _You’re doing it again, Hawke. You’re flirting with him even though he turned you down._

…but he knew it was just fun, right? He knew she did this with everyone, right?

Then she realized that she hadn’t _really_ done this with everyone since she met him. No, she had mostly just been flirting with Anders.

And she felt bad about it, suddenly. He clearly had personal reasons of his own for not reciprocating her interest, and she was probably just making things worse. “I’m sorry,” she said, and her apology was genuine. “I just… I say things sometimes, without thinking about it. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

“You didn’t,” said Anders. He looked at her with warm eyes and smiled. “I… appreciate your words, Hawke. And your companionship.”

 _Oh no, he was being cute again._ Hawke leaned forward and poked his nose. She couldn’t help it. “I’m still getting you some food, though. Come on, I’ll tell you about the mage on the way.”

 

They ended up heading out with Merrill and Fenris. It was only the second time Fenris and Anders met, and the two of them began sniping at each other right off the bat. It turned into glaring at each other after Hawke gave them both a warning glance, but this truce was short lived.

“You would do well in Tevinter,” said Fenris at one point, after Anders had made some sort of comment about free mages. “Work some blood magic and buy some slaves, and you’ll fit right in.”

“Surely not everyone in Tevinter is a slave-owning blood mage.” Anders sighed.

“No," agreed Fenris. "Only the mages. Give them any sort of power, and they thirst for more. It’s always the same story.”

“So wanting to be free is the same as wanting power, now?” Anders shot back. “I would think you would understand the desire for freedom.”

“Do not presume to know how I feel, mage,” said Fenris.

“Mm,” Merrill said suddenly. “Do you know, I think that cloud up there is shaped like a bunny rabbit.”

“Alright,” said Hawke, turning to look at Anders and Fenris. “Anders, you haven’t been a slave. Fenris, you haven’t been in a Circle. Neither of you know how the other’s life has been, so respect that. At least when you’re out here with me. Okay?”

Her voice left no room for argument, and the two men shot each other a wordless glare, but said nothing. They would behave, if only for Hawke. And that was good enough for her.

They were in Lowtown, not far from the shack where Hawke lived, and it wasn’t long before she tracked down Vincento, who was the lad’s father. He had a little shop where he was selling Antivan goods, and he called out to Hawke as soon as he saw her. “Ah! Are you perhaps interested in some fine wares from Antiva? I have jewelry, some clothing, and…”

“Do you have food?” Hawke asked.

“Mmm,” Vincento said, scratching his chin. “I do not, but I know exactly who to direct you to if you are looking for authentic Antivan cuisine.”

“I would appreciate that,” said Hawke, “But I have one other question to ask you first.”

“Of course! Of course. What did you need to know?”

Hawke moved a bit closer and lowered her voice. “I need to know about your son,” she said.

“I…” Vincento’s voice quavered a bit. “I assure you, I am a simple bachelor. I have never been tied down, and never plan to be.”

“It’s alright,” said Hawke. “You can trust me. I want to help him.”

Vincento’s eyebrows were pursed, his expression conflicted, but finally he relented. “I… suppose you do not look like templars,” he said. “Very well. I told him to get help from a man I know named Samson. He is an ex-templar who is sympathetic towards mages. I thought… I thought perhaps he could help him. Please,” he said, and looked up at Hawke. “Do you know if he has escaped?”

“No,” said Hawke, “But I’m going to find him and make sure he has.”

“Thank you,” said Vincento with a sigh of relief.

“Now,” said Hawke. “Food?”

 

Vincento directed them to a woman near the docks who made Antivan food, and after checking to see if Samson was around— he wasn’t— they bought a meal and settled down at a little table and ate. Hawke insisted on paying, and the fact that Anders and Fenris both balked at this idea brought her some amount of satisfaction. They were finally agreeing on something, at least.

They finished up their meal and then headed back to the spot on the docks where Samson was said to wait. This time he was there, a rather ragged and shifty looking man with hollow eyes, and from a distance Anders said under his breath “Lyrium withdrawals.”

They approached him cautiously, and the man was on edge and eyed them suspiciously, but said nothing. Hawke was the first to speak. “Samson?”

Samson was still quiet as he looked them up and down. “Yes?” he asked finally with a gravelly voice.

Hawke got right to the point. “I’ve got a question for you. It’s about a boy named Feynriel. Have you seen him?”

“Mmm.” Samson grunted. “That depends. Who are you, wanting to know?”

“A friend,” said Hawke, and she fished a silver piece out of her pouch and tossed it to him. “And Maker’s breath, you look like you need more help than he does.”

Samson caught the coin and snorted. “Better out on the streets than a templar in the fucking Gallows. But if you genuinely want to find that boy, you’ve missed him. I sent him off to a man I met recently named Captain Reiner. He said he could help get him out of Kirkwall.”

“But… can he, _really_?” Hawke asked, raising one eyebrow.

Samson shrugged. “Do I look like I can vet everyone who offers to help? Mages are desperate. They’ll take what they can get. I don’t blame them. If I was a mage, I’d ride out of here on a barrel.”

Fenris spoke up now. “Hawke. This could be trouble. There are a lot of slavers who claim to help the poor and then take advantage of them.”

Hawke was starting to feel equally concerned. She turned back to Samson. “So… where is this charming Captain Reiner fellow?”

“Up the Wounded Coast somewhere. The east side, I think. He might still be there, if you want to look. I dunno.”

“You’re not really very good at helping mages, are you?” Anders broke in.

“Any help,” said Samson firmly, “Is better than no help. But if you want to try to do a better job, be my guest.”

“Already working on it, thanks,” said Anders bitterly.

“There he goes again,” mumbled Fenris.

Hawke put a hand on Anders’ feathery shoulders before he had a chance to retort and spark another argument. “We’ve got a chance to help mages right now,” she said. “Come on.”

 

Fenris’ hunch, as it turned out, had been correct. When they found Feynriel in a cave on the coast he was desperately trying to fight off a band of slavers. He may not have been a trained mage, but he had raw natural talent, and with it he was successfully keeping the slavers off of him, even though he was outnumbered. The slavers spat at him and cursed and called him names— “fucking abomination”, they said— and they were circling him like a pack of wolves, their swords and daggers raised, when Hawke arrived. But immediately Fenris lit up and leaped into the fray and Hawke, Merrill and Anders were right on their heels, and together the four of them made quick work of most of the slavers. The leader of them did finally sneak up behind Feynriel and hold a dagger to this throat, sneering at Hawke and threatening her to make another move— which she promptly did, forgoing proper magic for the moment for the much more satisfying and visceral move of hurtling her own dagger between the man’s eyes.

Very soon there was nothing left in the cave but Hawke and her crew, a pile of dead slavers, and one very terrified young mage.

“You… what…” Feynriel was incredulous and gasping. “He… he could’ve killed me!”

“He could’ve. But he didn’t.” Hawke leaned down and pulled her dagger from the skull of the man whom she’d killed and wiped it on his clothes.

Feynriel was wide-eyed and flabbergasted. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I—” Hawke summoned a quick fireball in her hand before extinguishing it— “Am you. An apostate mage.”

“So you’re not with the templars then?”

“No.”

“You’re not going to send me to the Circle?”

“Nope,” said Hawke.

Feynriel hung his head. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “My mother thinks I should go to the Circle. But I don’t… I can’t. Do you know what they say about the Gallows?”

“Yes,” said Anders. His voice was sympathetic and soft. “That’s why we’re not going to send you there.”

“What can I do, then?” Feynriel asked.

“I think Merrill had an idea, actually,” said Hawke, turning to her.

“I did?” Merrill asked. “Oh! Oh, yes I did! I think perhaps you could live with the Dalish. My clan is called the Sabrae clan. It’s where your mother is from originally. They might take you in. You are half-elven, even if you look human. And there is much that my Keeper, Marethari, could teach you.”

“Do you… think they might take me? Really?” Feynriel was nervously fidgeting with his shirt collar.

“Well,” said Merrill, “There’s only one way to find out.”

“Hawke.” It was Fenris who was speaking up now. “I understand your concerns. And I understand your sympathy. But is it really a good idea to set an untrained mage loose upon the world? Templars exist for a reason.”

“The Dalish have had magic without Circles for centuries,” said Hawke. “If any idea is a good one, this is.”

“Hmm.” Fenris looked away. “I do not entirely agree with you, but I will admit that it is a better idea than most.”

Hawke turned back to Feynriel. “Go to the Dalish,” she said. “They’re on Sundermount. If they don’t help you, come find me. I’m Hawke, by the way.”

“Just… Hawke?” Feynriel asked.

“Just Hawke.” And she turned and left.

 

Hawke spent the trek back to the city wondering if she should do what she wanted to do. Well, one of the things she wanted to do. She certainly wanted to ravage the skinny mage who was walking close to her. But unfortunately that was off the table, so what she wanted instead was to tell him something important. She wasn’t exactly sure how to bring this up without making it sound either like a proposition or like he was in trouble, but she did her best to make it nonchalant after Merrill and Fenris headed their separate ways and she said “So Anders, can I talk to you about something real quick?”

“Should I be scared?” Anders had that sarcastic bite to his voice again. Hawke wondered, suddenly, what he’d been like years ago. Before Justice. Before templars. Before Grey Wardens. Before life had a chance to try to sand down all his rough edges. She figured he was probably like he was during quiet times like these— a little shithead, just like she was.

“Oh,” she replied jokingly, “You should be terrified.”

Anders held up his hands in a mock cower. “But I’m just a poor little mage, who will help me?”

“You’re beyond help, I’m afraid,” said Hawke.

“That’s what they all say,” Anders shrugged and grinned. “What did you need to ask?”

“I was, um, actually wondering if we could talk about it in your clinic,” said Hawke. “I’d suggest my place, but Gamlen’s probably drunk.”

Anders paused and looked a little concerned at this suggestion, but quickly acquiesced. “Sure,” he said. “We aren’t far, anyway.”

They walked there together in what was mostly an awkward silence, and Hawke wondered if he thought she was going to try to get into his pants again. Probably. _That would be a lot more fun than what I’m about to tell him_ , she thought to herself.

They arrived at Anders’ place, and Hawke got down to business. She didn’t want to make the poor man any more anxious than he already appeared to be. “You know that Deep Roads expedition I’m working on funding?”

“That disaster? Yes.” Anders leaned against a wall.

“I’ve funded it.”

He pushed himself off the wall. “What?”

“Well, I mean, not technically, yet,” said Hawke. “As in, I haven’t given the money to Varric’s jackass brother yet. But I have enough.”

“I see.” Anders looked away. “You’ll be going on this expedition soon, I take it?”

“As soon as I can. A couple days from now, probably.” Hawke looked back at him. His face was etched with concern, which pained her. He always seemed to age a few years when he was worried. “Anders,” she said quickly. “I’m not asking you to go. It’s okay. I know how much you hate the Deep Roads. I just thought I’d let you know that I might be gone for a while.”

“I… thank you,” said Anders, and he looked at Hawke with soft eyes. “But that’s… not why I’m worried.”

 _Oh. Oh Maker. He’s worried for me._ “I’ll be fine,” Hawke said, and she gave him a crooked smile. “Me and Carver and Varric have got it. Oh, and my dog. Shadow will kill anything that looks at me funny.”

Anders shook his head. “You don’t know the Deep Roads,” he said. “The Blight might be over, but there are still darkspawn. It’s different when you’re fighting them down below instead of above ground, like you were. You don’t know fear until you’re… until you’re miles underground, in the dark, surrounded by rock, and… and noises, unnatural noises, coming from every direction.”

He was looking increasingly agitated, so Hawke said quickly, “I know. I know, it’s not going to be easy. But it’s something I have to do, alright? I have to get my family out of that rat hole in Lowtown.” She tried a smile again. “I’ll be okay.”

“Do you promise?” Anders asked.

That was a sudden and almost vulnerable question— and very sweet. “I promise,” she said. “You won’t even know I’m gone.”

Anders was still looking at her with deep concern, and Hawke had the urge to _kiss_ him, suddenly, and not even in a romantic way. Just in a _comforting_ way. She didn’t, of course, but she tried to give him her best reassuring smile. “Anyways,” she said then as she started to leave, “I’d better get going, so…”

“Take me with you.”

Hawke was already halfway out the door when he said it, and she paused and looked at him. “What?”

“You’re going to need a healer and a Grey Warden. And I’m both.”

“Anders…” Hawke said his name gently. “I already told you, we’ll be fine. I know you’re… I know you’re claustrophobic. I know you hate it down there.”

“I… yes, both of those are true,” said Anders, and he looked down at the ground briefly before looking back up at Hawke. “But I can’t let you go in there alone. If something happened to you, I couldn’t live with myself. It’d kill me as surely as the templars would.”

He was looking at Hawke with such concern in his warm eyes, then, and it filled her heart up to the brim with those _feelings_ that she’d been trying to leave behind. And as much as she hated to admit it to herself, she’d been harboring a rather selfish hope that he would come with her. She liked having him near her.

And Maker’s breath, she felt like an absolute sap because of that.

“Alright,” said Hawke. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” said Anders.

“Thank you,” said Hawke. “I… really, thank you.”

Anders smiled at her, weakly. “Don’t thank me until I get you out of there alive,” he said.

“And what do I get to thank my hero with?” The words came out of Hawke’s mouth before she could stop herself.

Anders, though, grinned and replied without a beat. “Oh, I’m sure you can think of something exciting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a bit longer than usual to get this chapter out. Work has been kind of nuts for me lately. Rest assured I'm still working on this fic at least a little bit every day. Thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

Hawke should have known that getting into the Deep Roads wasn’t going to be easy as it sounded.

First, Bartrand happened to be conveniently out of town when she told Varric that she had the money. “He’ll be back by the end of the week,” Varric said. “Gives us some time to get supplies together and finalize plans, at least. Who’s going to be coming with us, anyway?”

Hawke was sitting across from him at a table at the Hanged Man. “Well, for sure… you, me, Carver, Anders, and my dog,” she said. “And anyone else who wants to come.”

“More than four or five will get complicated and, more importantly, cost money in supplies,” said Varric. “So I’d leave it with who you mentioned.” He had the warden maps spread out in front of him and was inspecting them as he spoke. “Is your mother really okay with both her kids going down into Maker-knows-where?”

“Yes,” Hawke lied. In reality, Leandra was absolutely _not_ okay with it, and since learning of the entire venture a few days prior she and Hawke had been arguing about it at least once every six hours or so. But Hawke had decided that she was taking her brother, and that was final. _Hawkes stick together._

“And Anders actually wants to come?” Varric reached for his drink. “Wasn’t he bitching and moaning about how much he hates the Deep Roads?”

“Yeah. I talked him into it.” That was another lie, but Hawke shrugged it off. She didn’t want to tell Varric that _no actually he was so concerned for my safety that he looked like he was on the verge of tears and then volunteered to come along._ Nah, she decided it would be best to leave that part out. Oh, Varric would _love_ it, but then he’d want to hear all the details, and she didn’t particularly want to go into that. Mostly because then she’d have to admit to herself that there _were_ no details.

Fortunately, Varric took her comment at face value. “You and that silver tongue of yours, Hawke. I won’t complain about you snagging us a warden. One who can heal, too.”

“Well, you know me,” said Hawke. “Dragging my friends into dangerous situations is what I do best.”

“Don’t ever change, Chuckles,” said Varric. “Don’t ever change.”

  


Perhaps it didn’t matter that Bartrand was out of town. Everyone still needed Hawke’s help, it seemed. One distraught Orlesian man told her that his wife was missing. Initially, Hawke and Isabela walked away from him because he was an asshat. But Hawke ended up helping him later anyway, because she was a sucker, and it wasn’t the woman’s fault if her husband was a dick. The mission wasn’t exactly a success, but she’d tried, at least. Afterward, Isabela chided her for it gently. “You’re too nice,” she said.

“I’m an asshole,” said Hawke. “Born and bred.”

“You’re a nice asshole, then,” said Isabela. They were at the Hanged Man, which is where they usually went when nothing else was going on. “Another drink?”

Hawke nodded, and Isabela got up and headed over to the counter.

Once she was alone, Hawke rubbed her eyes. Stress was piling up, and the drink only went so far. The Deep Roads expedition wouldn’t solve everything, no— but if it was a success, it would certainly make things easier.

If it was a failure, well— Hawke wouldn’t let it be a failure.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard.” That was Isabela, returning with drinks. “You should go easier on yourself. Starting with more alcohol.”

“Mmm.” Hawke was already quite tipsy, but she welcomed more drink and took a sip. “I think you already forgot the part where I said I was an asshole.”

“You can be an asshole to everyone else without being an asshole to yourself,” said Isabela. “In fact, I’d assume that’s probably the ideal way to go about things.”

 _Not when you’re the oldest child in the family_ , Hawke thought to herself. _And not when you’re a mage._ She opted not to say any of this out loud, though. People who weren’t mages tended to _not quite grasp_ all the implications of what being a mage _meant_. It wasn’t their fault, entirely. She figured a qunari would have a similarly difficult time trying to explain to her what it meant to be a qunari. But that was how things were, and she didn’t want to bring down the mood any further by going into explicit examples about living in hiding and in fear; a wordless threat above her family’s head at all times partially because of her. Hawke wondered, sometimes, if her mother ever regretted running away with an apostate. Oh, it was of course nothing she’d ever admit, if she did. But Hawke wondered if she ever thought it quietly.

Hawke stayed late at the Hanged Man that night. In fact, she stayed late at the Hanged Man just about every night that week, in order to avoid her mother. She felt odd, and she couldn’t quite tell if it was because she was gloomy or on edge. Perhaps a bit of both.

The ball finally started rolling in the midst of a Wicked Grace game of all things. Hawke, Varric, Isabela, and Carver were all playing when Bartrand practically kicked down the door to the Hanged Man and strolled inside. “Varric! Your favorite brother is back in town!” he exclaimed.

“My only brother,” said Varric, without looking up from his hand of cards.

“Whatever.” Bartrand strolled up to them and folded his arms. “Before I left, you said you almost had the money. Well? Do you have the money? I’m tired of waiting around.”

“I think…” Varric looked over at Hawke. “You’ll find that our friend Hawke here has the money.”

“Hawke?” Bartrand turned to look at her. “Didn’t I chase you away a month or two ago?”

“Uh-huh,” said Hawke. She tossed the Angel of Death card on the table and then pulled a hefty sack of coins out of her pocket and handed it to Bartrand without looking up. He took it from her skeptically. His eyes widened as he opened the purse and saw its contents, though. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “You’re serious about this after all.”

“Here’s the deal,” said Hawke, who was looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “You get this money. We go on the expedition. A third of what we find is mine. That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

“Hmm. That’s a steep price.” Bartrand looked over at Varric as though Hawke wasn’t there. “What do you think, brother? Is she good?”

“Hawke is the best you’ll find in this whole damn city, Bartrand,” said Varric as he reshuffled the cards. “Take the offer. You won’t regret it.”

“Your little brother is smarter than you,” Hawke mumbled.

“What’s that?” Bartrand turned to look at her.

“Nothing.” Hawke shrugged, and Carver and Isabela snickered.

Bartrand pocketed the coin pouch. “Ol’ Bartrand will never turn down a good deal,” he said. “We’ll set off tomorrow morning. I’ll assume, if you’re as good as my brother says you are, that’s all the time you’ll need.”

“I’m always ready,” said Hawke.

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” Bartrand turned to leave. “Meet me in Hightown tomorrow,” he said as he headed off.

Once he had, Varric looked up at her. “Well, I’ll go ahead and let Blondie know. I’m headed that way anyway. You just focus on making sure you and Junior there have got everything squared away. You sure you’re ready for this, though, Hawke?”

Hawke had been ready for days. She’d spent the entire last week antsy and sitting on her hands while she waited on Bartrand. She was very glad things were finally going to get underway. “Like I said. I’m always ready.”

“Mother’s not going to be happy, you know,” said Carver.

“I’ll handle her,” said Hawke. “She’ll be fine.”

  


“No,” said Leandra. “I refuse to let you _both_ go down there. In fact, I refuse to believe you’re still seriously considering this. Have you lost your mind entirely, Marian?”

This all was, of course, a rehash of the same argument they’d had multiple times this week. But apparently things weren’t quite _serious_ until now, and, well, Leandra wasn’t very happy about it.

“Mother. This is the best plan. I’ve told you this already,” said Hawke, doing her best to remain patient. “And I’ll be fine. And Carver will be fine.”

“Just like Bethany was fine?” Leandra nearly screeched.

 _That_ was a low blow, and Hawke looked away. Leandra did, as well. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she said, although her voice was only slightly less angry than it had been a moment ago. “But I don’t want to lose you. Either of you.”

Hawke was quiet for just a moment as she tried to articulate what she wanted to say. Finally, she said, “Mother. I just want what’s best for you and Carver. And we aren’t going to get that here unless we go out and earn it. And it’s not like Carver and I will be alone. We’ll have dwarves with us. Dwarves know the Deep Roads better than anyone. And we’ll have a warden. Who can fight the darkspawn better than a warden?”

“You’ll have a warden?”

“A warden _and_ a healer, mother,” said Hawke. “You’d like him.”

“A… healer?”

There was a lilt of anxiety in Leandra’s voice as she said the word. Of course. Most healers were mages. And mages were people to be wary about, and it didn’t matter if your husband was a mage or if your children were mages, because you were still fighting decades of society-driven indoctrination.

Hawke was used to it.

Not that that made it hurt any less.

Her voice, though, was conversational as she said “The wardens have mages. It’s not a big deal. Anyway, the point is that we’re going in prepared and nothing bad is going to happen. Trust me.”

Carver, who had been in another room, walked in at some point during this conversation and chimed in. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions, mother. I’m going and that’s final.”

Leandra knew she was defeated and sighed. “I just thought… alright. It’s clear I can’t stop either of you. Please, though, before you do anything, just… think about it?”

Hawke already had. She knew entirely well that what they were doing was dangerous. But she wasn’t going to sit here while her family lived in a dump. She wasn’t going to wait around for the viscount to _possibly_ get them their estate back when she had a surefire way to do so right in front of her. And she _certainly_ wasn’t going to spend any more evenings listening to Gamlen and Leandra’s arguing.

She looked over at Carver, who looked at her in return. They had a moment of understanding, then, and those moments between the two of them were rare and valued. If Hawke needed any sign that she was making the right decision, this was that sign.

Leandra had decided, for better or for worse, that the conversation was over and she shook her head and left the room, leaving Hawke and Carver alone. Hawke looked at him. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” said Carver.

Shadow, who was lying in the corner, barked. That made three of them.

Now they just had to wait.

  


Hawke, Carver, and Shadow headed off early the next morning. Leandra didn’t ask if they’d changed their mind— she knew they hadn’t— and instead implored them to be extra careful. Gamlen, too, saw them off, although his goodbyes were mixed with mumbles about it being a “fool plan”— something which Hawke, admittedly, couldn’t deny.

When they arrived at the designated meeting spot in Hightown, Varric was already there, talking to Bartrand and to two other dwarves who introduced themselves as Bodahn Feddic and Sandal. Well, one of them introduced the two of them. The other one, who was much younger, looked at them with wide eyes and asked “Enchantment?”

Bodahn laughed. “Don’t mind him. He’s a savant, they say. He can enchant things like no one else can. Isn’t that right, Sandal?”

Sandal looked over at him. “Enchantment!”

Hawke’s attention was elsewhere, though. Particularly, it was on the fact that everyone who was coming along on the expedition seemed to be there… except for Anders. She figured he might be the last one to arrive, but as time went on and the final preparations were made, he still failed to make an appearance. Where was he? Had he decided not to come along at the last minute?

…had templars found him?

That last thought twisted Hawke’s stomach in knots. They knew he was there. They no doubt had his phylactery. If what Anders had said was true and they weren’t bothering with him largely because he was in an inconvenient location, then it was really only a matter of time before they finally decided to crack down on him.

Carver noticed Hawke’s wandering gaze. “Where’s Anders?” he asked. “I thought you said he was coming.”

“I’m gonna go get him,” said Hawke. “Stay here.” She strode away without waiting for a reply.

  


She made quick time to Darktown, getting there as fast as she could without breaking into a sprint. Her mind was working overtime as she went. What if he wasn’t there? What if it had in fact been the templars and they’d already carted him away? He and Justice would have put up a fight, but it might not be enough. The thought of those warm eyes dulled from Tranquility…

She’d track him down. She’d track him down, she pledged, before it was too late. _Please don’t let it be too late._

She was up the ramps to the clinic in seconds. By now she could hear wailing coming from inside, although it didn’t sound like Anders. Confused, she approached the door and pushed it open.

The wailing was coming from a woman who was lying on the table, and Anders was at the end of it, coaxing her with an encouraging voice, and that’s when it dawned on Hawke: he was delivering a baby. She backed out of the clinic out of respect, and waited and listened as Anders helped the woman and calmed her partner, and soon Hawke heard both the cry of a newborn baby and the profuse, heartfelt gratitude of its parents.

“It’s a boy,” she heard Anders say.

“Can we name him after you?” asked the mother.

Anders laughed. “You don’t want to curse the poor child already, do you?”

Hawke smiled and waited as Anders checked and double checked with the young family before sending them off, and then she watched them leave, their faces aglow as they held their new child wrapped snugly in a blanket.

Hawke pushed her way into the clinic again. Anders was wearing an apron and some gloves, and he was pulling these off as Hawke approached. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly. “I know I was supposed to meet up with you earlier, but, well, something came up, as you can see.” He smiled at her. “I’m ready now, though.”

“Do you deliver a lot of babies?” Hawke asked. She was genuinely curious.

“Now and again,” said Anders. “I try to help anyone who needs it…” his sentence trailed off into a loud yawn. “Sorry. They had already been here for a while when you showed up.”

“Andraste’s breath, do you ever sleep at all?”

“I’ll have you know I slept a solid four or five hours last night,” Anders retorted with mock offense.

“Just… please don’t fall asleep when we’re in the middle of fighting darkspawn,” said Hawke.

“I’ll do my best,” said Anders. He tugged on his coat and spent several long seconds buckling the all the little straps and chains. “How do I look?” he asked at length. “Like a dashing, roguish apostate?”

“Very,” said Hawke. She reached up, though, and smoothed down some of the feathers on his shoulders. _Maker, but it was nice to simply touch him._ “And also a bit like a very startled crow.”

“Varric says the feathers add to the brooding rebel mage persona,” said Anders cheerfully.

Hawke tilted her head a bit and looked up at him. She was standing close to him, very close, and if he was using humor to hide his true feelings, he was doing a good job of it, because she genuinely couldn’t tell how he actually felt. Was he as nervous as she was? Was he having doubts about this entire venture? He, more than anyone else in the party, knew what they were up against. If there was anyone who would be her bird in the lyrium mine, it was Anders.

“Are you ready?” she asked him.

He reached for his staff. “Lead the way.”

  


“Oh good, you’re not dead,” said Bartrand as Hawke and Anders approached. He turned and yelled out to the others. “Alright, kiddos, you’ve got five minutes to finish what you’re doing before we head out.”

Hawke walked over to where Carver was hefting both their packs onto his shoulders. “Well, this is it,” he said to his sister. “Do you think this will all be worth it?”

“It better be,” said Hawke. “Or I’m out fifty soverigns.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Hawke,” said Varric, who was standing nearby. “You can make fifty gold back in a couple of rounds of Wicked Grace. Easy!”

“He has a point,” said Anders. “How do you win so often, anyway?

Hawke cuffed his shoulder playfully. “Natural talent.”

Bartrand was impatient, and only a few minutes passed before he rounded everyone up and they began the trek out of Kirkwall. Anders seemed to relax the moment they were out of city, breathing in the breeze and the sun. But the group got collectively more anxious as they approached the dilapidated entrance to the Deep Roads that they were aiming for, and things felt very final by the time they were all standing outside it.

Bartrand looked over at Anders. “Hey, warden. Anything we should know before we go in here?”

Anders shook his head. “I’m attuned to the darkspawn. I should be able to sense them before we see them. I’ll let you know if I sense anything, but for now… I’ve got nothing.”

“Good. Let’s hope the blighted bastards are all dead.” Bartrand headed down into the darkness without a second glance back, and the others followed.

And Hawke didn’t know it, but when she’d come back above ground, she would be considerably more alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the most exciting chapter in the world but you know. Things will start picking up very, very soon! Thanks for reading!


	9. And I'll Follow You Into The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders, Hawke, and the others begin their descent into the Deep Roads. Anders has memories that are unpleasant. Hawke helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for an anxiety attack.

The Deep Roads, Hawke thought, had a dangerous beauty all their own. The dwarves had built them to last, and so they did, stubbornly outlasting even the hordes of darkspawn that had long ago taken them over. Oh, parts of the vast underground system were dilapidated and broken, but even through it all the dwarven engineering was very visible, angular and strong, and more than anything else it gave Hawke the impression that she was trespassing in some sort of great, ancient city.

“Damn,” Carver said. “Imagine how this place would’ve looked before the darkspawn showed up. It must have been amazing.”

“Still dark and dreary, though,” Anders quipped. Hawke glanced over at him and he smiled at her. She wasn’t sure if he was smiling to reassure her or reassure himself.

“Mmm.” Bartrand didn’t seem particularly impressed. “Anything valuable is bound to be deeper inside. Come on.”

So deeper they went. At first, they didn’t find anything exciting. If there had been any darkspawn here recently, they must’ve cleared out. Hawke would look over at Anders, every so often, to see if he sensed anything, but every time she did he just shook his head.

The hours ticked on and they went further into the dark. The ruins were more and more broken the further they went, and here and again they had to take on some nests of angry spiders or a few deepstalker runts. But there was still no sign of any darkspawn, nor was there any hint of dwarven treasure.

“Do you really think we’re going to find anything down here?” Carver asked at one point as they trudged through more ruins.

“We will,” said Bartrand. “We just have to go further. Find a place neither the darkspawn or the looters have hit yet. This, here?” He gestured around himself. “This is normal every day Deep Roads. We’ve got a bit further to go until we hit the real stuff.”

“Great,” said Anders.

They went on for about another hour and saw nothing more of interest, so they decided to make camp and eat. Varric and Bartrand were talking business, and Bodahn and Sandal were looking through their inventory, so Hawke, Carver, and Anders all sat down in one corner and ate. Silently, at first, until Carver said, “So if this all comes to naught, then what are we going to do?”

“It won’t all come to naught,” said Hawke, although truthfully she was starting to wonder if it would. “Varric knows what he’s doing,” she said at last, partially to herself. “He wouldn’t have dragged us down here if he didn’t think this was a good idea.”

“Mm,” said Carver. “I suppose you’re right.”

Hawke looked over at Anders. He was spending more time picking at his food than he was eating it. “Are you alright?” she asked him.

“Hmm?” Anders looked up, confused. He clearly hadn’t been listening to their conversation. “Oh, yes,” he said suddenly. “I’m fine.”

Hawke wasn’t sure if he actually was fine or if he was just _saying_ he was. And it was important to her that she knew. Anders had become a good friend, and she wanted to take care of him. “Carver,” she said suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“Did you feed Shadow?”

The dog looked up at them upon hearing his name and whined.

“Of course I did,” said Carver.

“Then how come he looks like he’s starving?” Hawke asked. “Look at him. Poor guy.”

“He’s just appealing to sympathy,” said Carver. “You know he does that.”

“Well, if you can stand to keep looking at that sad face, be my guest,” Hawke said. “Poor little thing.”

Shadow whined again, and finally Carver stood up. “Alright, alright. I’ll get him some more.”

Once Carver had left, with Shadow right on his heels, Hawke turned back to Anders. “Anders.”

He looked startled. “What?”

“…Anders.” Hawke was softer with his name this time. “Are you sure you’re doing alright? You’ve hardly eaten.”

Anders looked away, as though embarrassed. “It’s just… rough. Can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” said Hawke. She’d listen to him talking about grass growing just to hear his voice.

“I remember, when I was little… my parents and I lived in this small village in Ferelden. And my grandparents, my mother’s parents, lived nearby, too.” He rubbed a wrist with his hand. “We went to their place every so often, to visit. And my first memory… the first thing I remember from my life, is that I got away from my parents and went exploring the house, and I found a little closet. I went inside and the door shut behind me, and… it locked. I was trapped. I cried and cried but no one heard me until they went looking for me, and after that, well…” he laughed nervously. “Since then, tight spaces have… not sat particularly well with me. But let me tell you,” he continued, “Spending a year in solitary confinement does not do any wonders for getting over that fear.”

He was trying to put a joking spin on his confession, but Hawke saw right through it and was horrified. “A _year_?”

“One year,” Anders said, and his eyes hardened and he looked up and glared into the darkness. “In a tiny, dark cell. And for what? For being a blood mage? Oh no. No, it was all for wanting to live like every other man and woman in Thedas. Isn’t the Circle _just_ wonderful?”

Hawke didn’t have time to respond, because Bodahn suddenly walked up to them. “Ah! Sorry to interrupt, but have either of you seen Sandal about? He disappeared a few moments ago and I don’t know if he can fend for himself, really.”

Hawke glanced over at Anders. He shook his head. She looked up at Bodahn. “Haven’t seen him,” she said.

“I see.” Bodahn nervously poked his fingers together. “Could I, perhaps… talk you into looking for him? I’d look for him myself, but frankly, I’m not much help in a fight and should we stumble across something…”

“It’s fine,” said Hawke. She was done eating and feeling antsy. She stood, and Anders did as well. “Hey! Carver!” she yelled.

“Mmm?” Carver was busy feeding the dog.

“Come on,” said Hawke. “Sandal's run off somewhere. We’re gonna look around.” She stretched and then hoisted her staff, and then she, Anders, Carver, and Shadow set off.

The cave-like clearing that they’d been resting in branched off in a few directions. One of the paths was larger than the others and Hawke guessed that was the main route they’d be continuing on. She decided to scour the side paths first, though, in case Sandal had gone wandering off down one of those. These pathways were thin and dark, and Hawke kept a careful eye on Anders as they went along, but he seemed to be doing his best to push down his fears and put on a brave face. That is, until he paused and snapped his head up, as though something had suddenly been brought to his attention. Something _bad_. “Oh. Oh shit,” he said, almost under his breath, and he grabbed his staff, and Hawke and Carver reached for their weapons as well without stopping to ask why. Hawke had an _idea_ of why, though, and she didn’t like it.

Hawke’s suspicions were quickly confirmed as two genlocks rounded the corner and lunged at them, swinging clubs, their putrid scent filling the air around them. Carver’s sword sliced through the first as though it was the easiest thing he’d ever done, and Hawke and Anders cast a spell at the second near simultaneously. Both fell in an instant, but then a third leaped out of a dark shadow and landed on Carver’s leg. Carver screamed— mostly in surprise— but he kicked it off and then Shadow leapt on it and Carver shoved his sword through its head.

After that, all was silent, but the three of them remained on guard until Anders slowly lowered his staff. “I think that was it,” he said.

“Think?” asked Carver.

“I’m not sensing any others,” Anders said.

“Carver, are you hurt?” Hawke asked. “That fucker looked nasty.”

Carver grunted. “I’ll be fine,” he said.

“Here,” said Anders. He cast a quick spell, his hands glowing white. “That should help with any pain, at least.”

“Thanks,” Carver muttered. “We should keep looking for Sandal, though. Especially since we know for sure there are darkspawn around. They might have gotten to him first.”

“Shit,” said Hawke, and she pushed her way past Carver and continued round the corner. They went on, for a moment, before finally coming into a small clearing where Sandal was standing nonchalantly over the bodies of several fallen darkspawn and an ogre that was frozen in place— dead— as if by some sort of magic. Hawke looked at Sandal, looked over at the ogre, and looked back at Sandal. “…what did you do?” she asked.

“Boom,” said Sandal.

“I… see.” Hawke decided not to question it. Dwarves couldn’t be mages, but if Sandal possessed some sort of hidden talent or technology that could help them fight darkspawn, she wasn’t about to complain. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you back to camp.”

They didn’t encounter any more darkspawn on the way back to camp, for which Hawke was grateful. She was concerned that there might have been more where they came from, though, especially since at least one ogre had been confirmed. “Anders, about the darkspawn,” she said, “Do you think there are more nearby?”

“I don’t sense any,” said Anders, “But I imagine that we just ran into some stragglers. I’m sure there will be more, as we head farther in.”

“Lovely,” Hawke said flatly.

Almost as soon as they arrived back where they’d camped, Bartrand yelled at them. “Oh, _there_ you are! Pack up, we’re heading on the move again. I have a good feeling about things.”

Bodahn, meanwhile, thanked Hawke profusely and immediately checked on Sandal to make sure he was okay— “Boom!” he kept saying— and Hawke and the others gathered up their gear and then they were on the move again.

Hawke was wary about more darkspawn popping up at any moment, but it seemed as though they had just run into an isolated group because Anders remained quiet and so, too, did the Deep Roads themselves. They had trudged on for about an hour when the roads themselves seemed to change; the style of the architecture around them was different, and perhaps more importantly, largely intact.

“Huh,” said Bartrand, as he held up a hand to stop the group. “I haven’t seen any dwarven ruins like this before.”

“That just means it’s extra valuable,” said Hawke.

“Mmm. You’re right,” Bartrand replied. “Stay on the lookout anyway. It’s too quiet.”

They headed deeper into the ruins. They spotted nothing, though— no spiders, no deepstalkers, no darkspawn. Hawke was on the alert all the same as Bartrand cast about for treasure. He found one or two old things which he examined and then put into his pack, but Hawke didn’t know what would and wouldn’t be considered valuable. At least Varric was on her side, she knew, and if he saw something she could use, he’d let her know.

Eventually they came across one very grand room, which looked as though it had been used for some sort of specific purpose long ago. This room seemed to be nearly untouched by years of unuse and darkspawn occupation, and the main group entered it with trepidation, as though they all instinctively knew that something here, either now or at some point in the past, resonated with importance. Bodahn and Sandal opted to stay outside, and Hawke couldn’t blame them. The walls of the room were high and tinged with red. It didn’t sit right with Hawke, but she couldn’t exactly pin her finger on _why_.

None of this was as important, though, as what was in the center of the room: an altar, and on the altar a glowing red idol unlike any Hawke had ever seen. She didn’t have to look twice to know that this was the sort of treasure they were after. Oh, for sure, she had no idea what it was or who’d make it or why it was there. But someone would pay a lot of money for it.

Varric was the first to the idol, and he eyed it momentarily, its unnerving red light shining in his eyes— and then he reached out and plucked it from its position. “Hey brother,” he called out. “Take a look at this.”

Bartrand walked over and took the idol, rolling it over in his hands and admiring it. “Damn,” he said. “I don’t know what it is, but I do know that I like it.” He continued to stare at it, and the more he did, the more his eyes gleamed as though it was the most entrancing thing he’d ever seen.

Hawke let him fawn over it. She was busy scoping out the rest of the room with Carver for any other treasure they might find. But after a few moments it was clear that the idol was the only thing in the room of any import, and she walked over to Varric. “Aside from a bunch of rubble, I don’t think anything else is in here,” she said.

“I don’t think so either,” said Varric. “We got a nice little prize in that gadget, though. Find a few more of those and you’ll be set for life.”

“Onward, then?” said Hawke.

Varric nodded, and they turned to Bartrand— who was walking out the door.

“Bartrand?” Varric called after him.

Bartrand was already out of the room, though, and the door was closing behind him.

“Shit,” Varric hissed, and he, Hawke, and the others made a dash to grab it, but it was too late. The door shut, sealing them all inside.

“Bartrand!” Varric yelled. “The door’s shut! It won’t open from the inside.”

“Just now noticed that, did you?” Bartrand called back from the other side. “This idol’s worth a fortune. I’m not splitting that three ways.”

They heard his footsteps recede into the distance as Varric unleashed a stream of curses directed at his brother before finally falling silent. His hands were pushed up against the door and he was looking at the ground. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “I’m sorry, Hawke.”

Hawke didn’t know how to respond. She was still trying to process what, exactly, had happened.

“Fuck,” said Anders behind her. She turned to look at him; he was distraught, staring at the shut door. “Fuck,” he said again, and he turned out let out a shaky breath.

“Anders,” Carver spoke up now. “You’re a Warden. You know another way out of here, right?”

“I don’t— I don’t know. I don’t know, alright?” Anders’ voice was raised and he was agitated.

“Well, if we can’t find a way out of here, then…”

“Shut up,” Hawke snapped at her brother, knowing full well what kind of an effect his words were having on Anders. “I’ll figure something out, okay?”

“I swear,” Varric grumbled. “When we make it out of this mess…”

Hawke walked away from him and motioned for Carver to follow. He did, and she lowered her voice. “Go easy on Anders,” she said. “He has rough memories of the Deep Roads, okay?”

“He might be our only way out,” said Carver.

“I don’t think he’s been in this part of the Deep Roads before,” Hawke replied. “What, do you think every Warden has traveled up and down them like an afternoon walk? Come on, Carver. Don’t be stupid.”

“Alright, alright.” Carver shook his head. “Sorry. I’m just… nervous.”

“We all are,” said Hawke. “Look. We can sort this out.” She swallowed; she wasn’t actually at all sure if she could, but damn if she wasn’t going to put on a brave face and try. She was the oldest; she was used to taking charge even in situations where she’d rather not do so. “There might be another way out. We didn’t exactly go looking for a door when we did a once over of the room, did we?”

“I guess we didn’t,” said Carver. The two of them headed towards the wall on the other end of the room, which was hiding behind a surprising amount of rubble. Almost as though whomever had built the room was trying to keep something out…

Hawke pushed some of the rubble out of the way. Carver looked at her quizzically. “Come on,” she said. “I think we might find something back here.”

So Carver began to push the debris and rocks aside as well, and they were soon rewarded with a way out of the room. Hawke’s hunch had been correct.

“Well,” said Carver. “It’s dark, and it’s just going to take us deeper into oblivion, but I guess it’s better than being holed up in here.”

Hawke eyed the opening. It was, indeed, dark. Pitch black, almost. Wherever they were headed, it would not be pleasant. But if they could at least find a way from there to the surface, she could live with a terrifying jaunt through darkspawn territory.

Anders, on the other hand…

She looked over at him. He was sitting on some steps over in a corner, far from the others, having folded himself up, arms around his knees— and in that moment, the tall mage looked very, very small indeed, like a lost child.

_Like a little boy stuck in a closet…_

_…like a grown man in solitary confinement._

“Carver,” Hawke said, “Get Varric and Shadow and scout around a bit down there? I want to make sure we’re not just walking into a dead end.”

Carver nodded and called to the other two, and Hawke walked over to where Anders was huddled. He didn’t look at her. Instead he looked straight ahead at nothingness, his eyes unblinking. Fear was radiating off of him.

Hawke sat down on the steps next to him. Still he didn’t look at her. “Hey, Anders,” she said softly. Her goal at that point was just to let him know that she was _there_ , nothing more. She wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone.

Anders said nothing. Hawke said nothing, either. She figured he knew he was there, now, but she didn’t want to force him past any remaining scrap of comfort zone he had left.

She struggled a bit then, inwardly. Should she say more? Asking him if he was okay was ridiculous, because of course he wasn’t. She looked over at him, quaking there on the steps, and he was close, so very close. She could reach out and put a hand on his feathered mantle. And she wrestled with that idea a bit, and then she decided that maybe it would help anchor him. So making sure to move slowly, so as not to startle him, she put a hand on his shoulder. He jumped at her touch, just a bit, but didn’t object. Still… “Is this alright?”

Anders didn’t reply at first, and Hawke wondered if he even would, but eventually he swallowed hard and nodded. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice catching in his throat as he spoke.

 _You don’t have to apologize_ , Hawke thought, but now wasn’t the time to deny anything he’d said, even if she disagreed. She rubbed his shoulder, softly. “I’m here,” she said.

“I know.” Anders was looking down now, and he tilted his head a bit as though trying to look at her, although he couldn’t lift his eyes from the ground.

They were quiet for a moment. Hawke’s hand was on his shoulder, and she could feel his breathing slowly start to stabilize. Hawke had an idea, then, and she didn’t know if it would help at all, but… “Hey,” she said gently. “Why did the templar walk into the bar?”

Anders was silent, and Hawke was about to finish the joke when he suddenly said, “He was too busy bitching about mages to watch where he was going.”

Hawke chuckled. “I’ve got another joke. Do you want to hear it?”

“Yes.”

That reply was quicker. She was making progress. “An off-duty templar was searching for a fine mabari to buy. He saw a dwarf selling them, and found a nice specimen. ‘I’d like to buy this dog,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I don’t sell to templars,’ said the dwarf. Naturally the templar was angry, so he returned home and changed his clothes and cut his hair. He returned to the dwarf later, sure he was thoroughly unrecognizable, and said, ‘I would like to buy this dog.’ ‘Sorry, I don’t sell to templars,’ said the dwarf. So the next day the templar returned wearing glasses and a fake beard. ‘I would like to buy this dog,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I don’t sell to templars,’ said the dwarf. ‘How do you even know I’m a templar?’ the templar said, exasperated. ‘I’m not wearing the uniform!’ And the dwarf pointed at his wares and said, ‘Because I sell nugs.’”

Anders cracked a smile. Then he snorted. “Andraste’s knickers, Hawke,” he said. “That was awful.”

“And you loved it.”

“Very much.” Anders was breathing easier. He was still visibly on edge, but he could at least look into Hawke’s eyes, now— his were golden and beautiful, even down here in the dark— and say “Thank you.”

They were having another _moment_ , where something intangible but meaningful was passing between them, and Hawke realized that her hand was still on his shoulder and she looked at it, and then Anders followed her gaze so she moved her hand. “Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t apologize,” said Anders. His voice was soft, like his coat. Like his eyes. Like _him_.

And then the moment was broken because Carver strode up to them. “Varric and I checked out that tunnel. I think this might be our ticket out of here.” He looked down at Anders and Hawke, sitting close to each other on the steps, and smirked. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Now now, the adults were talking,” Hawke said to him. She stood, and behind her Anders did as well. “We’re ready, then?”

“Whenever you two are,” said Carver. He turned and headed back to where Varric and Shadow were waiting.

Hawke looked over at Anders. “Are you… up to this, or did you need a moment?” She felt nothing but protectiveness for her feathered mage and her voice was concerned.

“Now’s as good a time as any,” said Anders. His expression was nervous, but determined.

And for the second time in what Hawke thought was far too short of a timespan, they descended into the dark unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a little while to get up! Work has been nuts lately! Thanks all for reading!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things in the Deep Roads take a turn for the worse. (But I hope you like pining, because there's a lot of that.)

Hawke was beginning to wonder if there was any possible way she could come out of this whole mess without having claustrophobia herself.

The Deep Roads had been dark before, but now they were darker still, and morale was not exactly high. Not only that, but there were _noises,_ just as Anders had warned her about before— horrifying, unnatural noises that Hawke couldn’t even begin to place, and they echoed and rattled about in the dark like so many childhood fears.

Anders was, surprisingly, one of the more talkative of the troupe now that Varric had him helping him to come up with various grisly fates for Bartrand once they found him. “Boiling in oil,” Anders suggested at one point as they marched rather awkwardly up some sloping tunnel.

“Too prosaic,” said Varric. “Trapped in a cave with hungry bears, right at the spring thaw.”

“That lets him off too easy.”

“I dunno, Blondie. I’ve heard rumors about those bears down in the Fereldan hinterlands.”

“I’ve got it,” said Anders. “Dipped in molten gold and left as a statue in the Viscount’s keep.”

“Ooh!” Varric was impressed. “That’s poetic.”

“I thought so,” said Anders.

“Are you still talking about what to do with Bartrand?” Carver asked.

They slope flattened off, and Anders shrugged his feathered shoulders. “Got any suggestions?”

“You do realize we’ve got to get out of here before we can do anything about him, right?” asked Carver.

“Oh come on,” said Hawke suddenly. “It’s not like we’ve got anything better to do in here. Unless you’d really rather play… I spy with my little eye something dark. Ooh! I know! It’s the encroaching darkness!”

Anders chortled, and Hawke smiled to herself, because every time he laughed she counted it as a personal victory.

They continued onward, bantering as they went— if that was the only thing they could do to keep their spirits up, Hawke would do the best she could to at least ensure that. She may have been a colossal fuckup, she thought, but at least she was good at rolling some dumb joke along the ground for them to follow.

As the hours went on they began to get hungry and also sleepy, and Hawke came to the realization that there was probably no really good spot for them to either eat or sleep, so they would just have to improvise. _Wing it, Hawke, like you always do_ , she thought to herself.

“So,” she said, suppressing a yawn. “Who’s up for a nice fun-filled night at the Darkspawn Inn? It comes complete with a nice view! …of darkness.”

“Slight problem,” said Carver. “I don’t see anywhere to camp.”

“Of course you can’t. It’s dark. It does an excellent job of hiding all the good campout spots.”

“Ha ha,” Carver deadpanned.

But Varric spoke up now. “Actually,” he said, “I think I’ve got us an okay place over here.”

Hawke walked over to where he was. He’d found a small hollowed out area in the rocky walls that wasn’t very large, but it could at least fit them all (if only just) and as it was walled in on three sides, they would only have one place to guard. It wouldn’t be particularly _comfortable_ , but it would work. And that was good enough for Hawke.

“Come on,” Hawke said. “Everyone in.”

Carver was the first to grumble, of course, otherwise didn’t complain as they crawled into the tight space and laid blankets out on the floor. Bodahn had most of their things so they could travel light, so those blankets were really all they had for beds and their available food was meager as well. The thought of what might happen if they ran out of food pushed its way into Hawke’s mind, but she pushed it back out again. That wasn’t something she particularly wanted to think about right now.

They ate wordlessly, and then Hawke said “I’ll take first watch.”

“You sure?” Varric asked.

“I’m not that tired anyway,” Hawke shrugged, which wasn’t entirely true, but she felt like the de facto leader of the little group and she wouldn’t have felt right not taking the first shift.

“Wake me up in a few,” said Carver. “I’ll do second.”

So the others all settled down and attempted to sleep, and Hawke was left alone with her thoughts. That was a combination that could be dangerous when she was under stress, so she did her best to not think of their immediate situation and think of other things instead.

Not that that was particularly easy to pull off.

Anders fell asleep quickly, which surprised Hawke until she realized it was probably an important skill he had developed. As an apostate on the run he’d no doubt have to learn to snatch fragments of sleep when he could. Carver had the dog next to him, because of course he did, and Varric had his crossbow nearby. Somewhere in the distance, nugs squeaked and insects chirped. All and all, Hawke decided, things could be going worse. Like things were shit, yes, but they could have been considerably more shit. Thank the Maker for small blessings.

Time ticked by slowly and Hawke found herself fighting off sleep. There was no one to talk to, nothing to distract her but her thoughts, and her eyelids felt increasingly heavier as the night went on. She caught herself drowsing off, which she knew could be a deadly mistake, and she was considering waking up Carver to take her place when she heard a sound coming from the blankets next to her.

She looked over; it was Anders. He was asleep but making a few quiet noises of distress as his hands clung to the blanket, his face tight. It was clear that he was being troubled by bad dreams, and it hurt to watch. The poor man had been through enough already. She crawled over to him and carefully shook him. “Anders?”

Anders seemed stuck in whatever nightmare had him in its grasp, at first, and he tensed from Hawke’s touch but didn’t otherwise react. But she shook him, again, and this time his eyes snapped open and he let out a gasp. He was breathing heavily. “Hawke?” He gasped her name out desperately, as though he was reaching for it like a lifeline. _He’s hoping it’s me,_ Hawke realized, and she thrilled at the thought, but didn’t let it distract her. “Sorry to wake you up,” she said. “You were having a nightmare.”

Anders sat up groggily; his blonde hair was a mess and partially falling out of its ponytail. He took a few breaths to calm himself down; Hawke said nothing but let him take his time. “Warden dreams,” he said finally. His hands were still clinging to the blanket for dear life.

“Warden dreams?” Hawke asked.

“One of the more delightful bits of being a warden,” Anders replied wryly. “We get to have nightmares for the rest of our lives. It’s not so bad when there aren’t as many darkspawn around— when we can’t hear their song. But down here, so close…” he shook his head. “Thank you for waking me, though. I didn’t frighten you, did I?”

“Are you ever concerned for yourself or is it always other people?” Hawke asked him playfully.

Anders gave her a half-smile but it was warm, like it always was. “It seems like just a few years ago when people would ask me the opposite thing,” he said.

Hawke realized, then, how little she knew of his past, and how curious she was to learn more. “How did you end up with the wardens?” she asked.

“Fun story, that. It was my eighth escape from the Circle.”

“Your _eighth_ escape?” Hawke didn’t know if he was pulling her leg or not, but she got the impression, somehow, that he was being truthful.

“Mm-hmm. I was trying to get to Kirkwall and made it as far as the Amaranthine docks. The templars caught me and were dragging me back when we ran into a group of raiding darkspawn at Vigil’s Keep. The templars all died fighting them. I didn’t… exactly lift a hand to help, mind.” He shrugged. “I figured they were going to put me in solitary again when we got back. Though thinking back on it now— knowing what I do now— they may have just gone ahead and made me Tranquil.” He took a ragged breath. “Anyway. The Warden-Commander found me roasting a few darkspawn and decided to keep me. The Commander was… far kinder to me than anyone had any right to be. Even helped me try to track down my phylactery. Then told me I was a friend.” He smiled at the memory, his eyes looking off into the distance. “I don’t have too many complaints about my time spent with the wardens, really. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a far sight better than the Circle. But then the Commander had to go, and that’s when things got bad.”

“Is that…” Hawke paused, wondering if it was okay to ask what she was about to ask, then ventured, “…is that when you and Justice…?”

Anders nodded. “We’d talked about it for a little while before that. It didn’t begin as a serious discussion, really. It was theoretical. But Justice… he was walking around in the corpse of a dead Warden, and it was just… well, there were problems with it all around. Not to mention the smell.” He chuckled. “But then the templars came after me. They had a few undercover, just to watch me.”

“Aren’t wardens exempt from that?” Hawke asked.

“Supposedly,” said Anders, “But _you_ know templars. If they’ll make a Harrowed mage tranquil, then why not go after wardens? Anyway. It all came to a head, one night, and they would have killed me. I know they would have killed me, if Justice and I hadn’t… together, we are _more._ Together, I’m no longer mortal, and he’s no longer a spirit, but we are both, together, all at once, and the templars certainly weren’t expecting that.” He was quiet for a minute, then said, “Would you believe me if I told you I took a sword to the heart?”

If it was anyone else, then no, she wouldn’t for a second. But Anders was far, far too sincere. “I might,” she said.

“I don’t know how Justice does it,” Anders admitted. “But when he takes over, he is able to shield me to some degree. I think I’ve dodged death a few times. That was one of those times. I’ve got the scar to prove it,” he added, and he sounded almost proud.

“Right over your heart?”

Anders nodded.

And Hawke couldn’t help herself. “Are you going to show me?” she asked teasingly.

She had been expecting Anders to chide her for flirting with him yet again, but instead he laughed. “I should’ve known you’d say that,” he said. He looked around, briefly— everyone else was still asleep— and then he beckoned Hawke to come closer and he reached up and tugged his coat down just enough to display a bit of his chest. Sure enough, there was a thick scar, the width of a blade, running over his heart.

Hawke gaped at it. She’d seen plenty of people with scars— Carver had a variety of them, and she had a few herself— but this told a clear and astonishing story. Anders had survived something no normal person could survive. “Did it hurt?” she asked, which was probably a dumb question but was the only thing she could think of to ask.

“Oh, Maker’s fucking breath. I didn’t feel it at the time, but afterward it was all I could do to not pass out. Justice kept me upright, and I healed myself as best as I could. Bit of a rush job. As I’m sure you can tell.” He laughed again, the scar on his chest rising and falling quickly in time with his laughter, and it took all of Hawke’s willpower to not reach out and stroke that scar, just to _feel_ him, to be near him, to be intimate in a way that wasn’t even sexual. There was something about him that was _magnetic_ , like a lightning storm just before the rain hit, and it was exhilarating to be near him.

The fact that he was damningly pretty did not exactly help matters.

Maker, but he was going to be the death of her.

She wondered if he knew just how much she was struggling to not pin him down and breathe him in and kiss him breathlessly. She was sure her own bumbling was making it astoundingly obvious. He _had_ to know. Maybe he was teasing her. Maybe he wanted this just as badly as she did. If it was anyone else, she’d test her theory. She had done so before in these sorts of matters, and people— especially men— tended to respond enthusiastically. And for good reason; she’d always prided herself in being able to pick up others’ clues in games of love and lust. But Anders was different. He was a puzzle and he was _special._ He had placed a trust in her— had told her that they couldn’t— and Hawke didn’t want to betray that trust.

So as much as she wanted to touch him, she forced herself not to, and he settled his coat back on his shoulders. “Have you been awake and keeping watch this whole time?” He asked.

“Yeah,” said Hawke.

“Did you want me to take over? You look tired.” Anders’ warm brown eyes were filled with concern.

Hawke shook her head. “Carver wanted next shift. I’ll wake him.”

Anders nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “Did you…” his voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat and looked away. “Will you be warm enough?” He asked finally. “Did you need any extra blankets?”

Hawke blinked. Was he implying what she thought he was? “Anders?” she asked.

He looked at her then, and there was _longing_ in his eyes, and _Maker damn it all he_ did _want this_ , but suddenly he cleared his throat and shut his eyes and shook his head and put a hand up to his temple, as though there was a fly buzzing near his ear. “I… no… no, you’re right,” he said, though not to Hawke.

“Anders?” Hawke asked again.

“Sorry,” Anders said. “I’m just… you know, it gets tough down here, and I’m— I’m sorry. I’ll let you be. You need your sleep.” He smiled weakly. “Thank you for waking me from that nightmare, though.”

Hawke did her very best to hide her disappointment at the sudden direction the night had taken. “You owe me one,” she joked.

Anders laid back down on his makeshift bed, and Hawke shook Carver awake. He was groggy and grumbled about the interruption beneath his breath, but he took his spot at watch without complaint and Hawke commandeered his bed.

She imagined she was snuggled up with Anders instead of alone in Carver’s bed, but this fantasy only lasted about a minute before she was fast asleep.

  


After they’d all taken a turn at watch, they set off again. The going was rough, but at least they were making some progress, and as far as Hawke was concerned, any progress was good progress.

The dark tunnel that they were scrambling through eventually gave way into one of the main thoroughfares of the Deep Roads themselves, and Hawke didn’t know it was possible to ever be so relieved to be back in the Deep Roads, of all places. Still, Anders didn’t recognize where they were, and the maps didn’t cover whatever part of the Roads they were in currently, so Hawke took a deep breath and made a guess and off they went.

As before, they didn’t actually encounter many darkspawn. There were odd things in this corner of the Deep Roads, though— “Demons,” she heard Anders say— and Hawke didn’t like it. “What happened to normal things to kill?” she asked. “Like giant spiders?”

Anders snorted, and every time he laughed Hawke remembered just how grateful she was that he was there.

Shades lurked around corners, and once or twice they had to take on a rage demon. Carver looked back at Hawke after he finished slicing one through. “Somehow,” he said, “I feel like going in the direction where the demons are coming from isn’t the best idea.”

“Unfortunately, I think you’ll notice there’s only one way _to_ go,” said Hawke, and she pushed past him and they continued on.

The roads opened up into one particularly large room, and it was here that the real strangeness started to happen. Rocks and pebbles moved about as if they were alive, sliding to and fro, and just as Hawke readied her staff and the others raised their own weapons, hundreds of the rocks banded together to form one giant living monstrosity at least as tall as a man. Shadow growled and barked at it and Hawke was readying a spell when the creature spoke. “Attacking me would be unwise,” it said in a voice that was much smoother than Hawke was expecting from a talking rock demon.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t,” Hawke said.

“If we make a deal,” the demon rumbled, “We could both come out of this for the better. You need my help to escape this place, do you not? I can show you a way out. For a price, of course.”

“Are we seriously bargaining with a talking rock?” Carver asked. His voice was sarcastic, but he had his sword at the ready.

“Nope,” Hawke replied, and she wound up a punch and then socked the demon in its makeshift face.

In retrospect, punching a demon in jaw may not have been the best idea in the world. The resulting fight was swift but teeth-clenchingly brutal, the demon drawing on immense amounts of energy from the Fade to barrage Hawke and the others with sheer power. Had any of them actually been capable of communicating with each other during the melee, there probably would have been a great deal of eye-rolling and snide remarks about Hawke’s rash decision. As it was, though, they eventually dispatched the demon and Hawke finished the deed by stabbing her staff down into the rubble that was all that remained of the creature. “Merrill might talk to demons, but I sure as shit don’t,” she said.

 _Now_ it was time for the snide remarks. “Did you really punch that thing?” Varric asked.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Hawke replied.

“Damn.” Varric shouldered his crossbow. “You’re an author’s dream, Hawke. I don’t even have to try to write you, because you write yourself.”

“Pleased to be of service.” Hawke tip-toed her way out of the debris of the fight and made her way to the room’s exit, which the demon had been blocking. And that was when she stopped, mouth agape, staring at something on the ground. “Hey, guys? I think you may want to see this.”

The others approached and Varric whistled. “Would you look at that,” he said. There, laid across the ground in front of them, was gold and jewels and treasure of all sorts; more than enough to set them up very, very nicely.

“And that,” said Hawke, “Is why I punched that demon.”

“You knew that was there, huh?” Varric teased.

“Hey, it was a lucky hunch,” Hawke shrugged. “A ‘guesstimate’, you might say.”

“Good guesstimate,” said Anders.

They spent a few moments scooping up as much treasure as they could carry into their packs and then finally headed out of the room. Hawke was pleased with their little discovery. Bartrand could take his idol and shove it.

Beyond the exit lay more Deep Roads, which Hawke didn’t find especially exciting, but Anders, suddenly, spoke up. “Wait a moment,” he said. “Where are those maps? Can I see them?”

“I’ve got ‘em,” said Varric. He pulled the rolled up maps out of his pack. “Here,” he said, and handed them over.

Anders took them and unrolled them, his eyes widening as he examined them. “I know where we are,” he said. He pointed to a spot at the edge of the map. “Here. And the exit is…” he pointed to another spot on the other side of the map. “Here.” He audibly breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the Maker. We’ll be getting out of this blighted place soon enough.”

Hawke smiled. “Where would we be without our favorite apostate? Lead the way.”

“Wait.” It was Carver. It was the first thing he’d said since the battle with the demon, and he sounded… off. There was a quiver in his voice. Hawke turned to look at him; he was standing a little way behind them, rubbing his head. “Can we… take a quick break, first? I feel… I think that demon might have done something.”

“Of course,” said Hawke without hesitation. It was very, _very_ rare for Carver to ever admit that he felt ill whatsoever, and the fact that he was doing just that was concerning enough for a break. She looked over at Anders.

She didn’t have to say anything for Anders to know what she was asking, and he stepped forward to give Carver a healer’s appraisal. But he’d hardly taken a step when Carver lost his balance and fell, and immediately Hawke leaped to his side and crouched down beside him. His face was ashen and lined with unnatural grays and blues, and Hawke’s heart jumped into her throat as she remembered exactly where she’d seen a face like that before.

_Ser Wesley. Aveline’s husband. Before she killed him because it was kinder than the Taint._

_The Taint._

“Carver,” she hissed, holding him upright. “Stay with me. Damnit, stay with me.”

Anders was kneeling down beside him as well, now, and Hawke looked up at him desperately. “Anders—”

Anders was distraught as he shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do… the Taint can only be cured by… wait. Wait. We might have a chance. The Taint can be cured by becoming a Grey Warden. And I know where we can find them. The reason I had those maps to begin with was so knew where they were so I could avoid them. They’re not far.”

“Do you hear that?” Hawke turned back to Carver, her voice frenzied. “Hang in there. We’re going to get you to the Wardens.”

“Hawke,” Carver coughed. “I… I can’t. If I become a warden… I’ll have to leave you… and mother… I can’t. What’s that we always say? Hawkes stick together.”

“Hawkes can’t stick together if they’re _dead!_ ” Hawke nearly screamed in her brother’s face.

“Listen to your sister,” said Anders. “Being a warden isn’t easy. And the… cure, such as it is… could also be deadly. But the alternative is that you die. Period. There is no other way. I’m sorry.”

“Figures,” Carver said bitterly. “Alright. I’ll… I’ll do it. Take me to the Wardens.”

“We don’t have much time,” said Anders, and he stood. “Hawke, have you got him?”

Hawke helped Carver up and then stood with her arm around his waist, supporting him. “Can you walk?” she asked him.

“With help,” said Carver weakly. It was clear that simply standing was taking a lot out of him.

“I’ve got you,” said Hawke.

Anders nodded at them. “This way,” he said, and he headed off at a swift pace, the others following as best as they could. Their going was quick, and Hawke felt bad urging Carver on when he was clearly in pain, but for his part he didn’t complain and limped along as best as he could. A few darkspawn leaped on them, at one point— Anders, Varric, and Shadow took care of them while Hawke kept her attention focused on her brother— and then they rounded a corner— Anders sent a darkspawn flying with one powerful spell— and that was when he finally paused. Hawke looked up. Grey Wardens.

They were wearing their distinctive blue and silver uniforms, visible and clear despite the mud and muck and darkspawn blood splattered across them. One of them, a man with an impressive mustache, looked Anders right in the eyes. “Anders,” he said.

Anders nodded at him politely. “Fancy meeting you here, Stroud,” he said.

“I thought you were through with fighting darkspawn,” Stroud said.

“I’m here for your help,” Anders said, and he turned to look back at Hawke and Carver. Hawke took that as her cue, and she stepped forward, Carver at her side. “It’s my brother,” she said. “He’s got the Taint.”

“I see. And you want me to… ‘cure’ him by making him a warden,” said Stroud. “You do realize that becoming a warden is not any sort of blessing or medicine? We are not a charity. We can’t take in everyone who has been tainted. I am sorry.”

Hawke considered punching him, but Anders broke in before she could. “Stroud, listen to me. With the Blight over, you don’t exactly have new recruits lining up. And this one is good. I’ve seen him fight. He’s exactly the type of recruit you need. You won’t regret it, I promise. Please.”

Stroud’s mouth formed a line. It was clear that he still didn’t like the idea, but Anders’ words had had an effect on him. He looked over at Carver. “The process of making you a warden may kill you as surely as the Taint will,” he said. “And even if it doesn’t, there is a chance you will never see your family again. Do you understand this?”

Carver looked at Hawke. Hawke looked back at him. And Carver nodded weakly. “I understand,” he said.

“Very well,” said Stroud. “Let’s get going, then. We don’t have much time.”

The other warden approached in order to take Carver from Hawke’s grasp, and she didn’t think she had ever in her life felt so thoroughly helpless as she did now, handing her little brother over to strangers. “Carver,” she said.

“Hawke,” said Carver, and then in a quiet voice that none of the others could hear, he added, “Marian.”

“I won’t punch you for calling me that this time,” said Hawke, and she attempted a smile.

“Well, aren’t I a lucky dog,” said Carver. The warden was holding him up now as he suddenly looked over at Anders. “Mage. Anders. Watch Hawke for me, will you? She’s not as invincible as she thinks he is.”

“On second thought, maybe I will punch you,” Hawke called after him as he and the wardens walked away.

“You love me,” Carver called back before falling into a fit of coughing.

Hawke couldn’t deny it.

She watched them go until they were out of sight, and then she turned. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The walk to the exit was slow and largely silent; no one was in the mood to say anything. After a few hours they stopped for a break, and it was here that Anders finally spoke up, simply to point out that according to the maps, they were very close to the surface. Varric voiced his approval, but Hawke had nothing to say. She went and sat alone, a bit away from the others, until Shadow approached and whined at her. That’s when she wrapped her arms around the dog and held him and shut her eyes and tried desperately to hold back tears. _I’m not going to cry_ , she told herself. _Not here. Later. Maybe. But not here._

Then she remembered that she had failed Carver the same way she had failed Bethany and…

Someone came and sat next to her. She didn’t have to look up to know who it was. She hugged Shadow tighter and blinked away tears.

“Hey,” said Anders.

Hawke made a grunting noise, but otherwise didn’t say anything. She didn’t trust herself not to cry.

Anders said nothing, and the two of them and the dog sat quietly for a while. Finally, though, Anders broke the silence. “What’s the difference between a templar and a cat?”

…was he…?

Slowly Hawke removed her face from Shadow’s neck and looked over at him.

“The cat’s got a mind of his own,” Anders smirked.

 _That smirk._ Hawke smiled. Just.

“Oh, I’ve got another one,” said Anders. “How do you make a templar’s eyes light up?”

“Shine a lantern in his ear,” Hawke said, and her reply was quiet but she was smiling despite herself.

Anders chuckled. “That’s one of my favorites,” he said. “Granted, I have… a _lot_ of favorite templar jokes. But… you know. I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you.”

Hawke laughed softly. She still felt like shit. But Anders’ presence helped, somehow. “Thank you,” she said. “For knowing a lot of bad jokes.”

“We’re not far from the surface,” said Anders, reaching over to scratch Shadow behind the ears. “But I don’t want to rush you. Did you need more time?”

Hawke didn’t know. A part of her did want more time, but another part of her wanted to leave this damned place behind once and for all. “I’m not sure,” she admitted.

Anders tilted his head in concern. “Did you need anything?” he asked.

“You.” The word came out of Hawke’s mouth unbidden, and she immediately felt awkward about it. “Just… stay with me,” she clarified.

“I won’t go anywhere if you don’t want me to,” promised Anders.

She could’ve looked into his eyes, then, but she was afraid that if she did she might start crying at how damned precious he was, so she looked away and focused on breathing and getting her emotions back under control. Anders sat with her, quietly, and when she finally felt ready to stand again Anders stood first and held out a hand to help her up. She took it gratefully, and she only very reluctantly let go once they were on their feet.

Varric looked over at her. “Are you doing okay, Hawke?”

Hawke nodded. “Anders has got me,” she said, and she was only half joking.

Anders smiled at her. And that smile, she knew, would be what would give her the energy to keep going.

It was what kept her going as they marched up and out of the Deep Roads into the open air again.

It was what kept her going as they headed back to Kirkwall.

Anders returned to his clinic, then, and much of Hawke’s resolve went with it, but thoughts of his smile were what kept Hawke going as she told her mother what had happened to Carver and her mother wept.

She couldn’t bear to be in the house at that point; all she could think about was that she had failed, yet again. She excused herself and sat outside in the evening air, her back against the beige walls of Lowtown, her head in her hands.

Hawke was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders taking a sword to the chest and surviving is canon! It's in a short story Bioware published.
> 
> Hawke being able to punch the rock demon is also canon. No, seriously, there's a video on tumblr.


	11. Comfort of Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is having a very, very bad night. Fortunately, she's not alone.

Hawke, as it turned out, couldn’t bear to be alone. She meandered down to the Hanged Man, where her plan was to get as thoroughly drunk as possible and then hopefully pass out for the next several weeks. Or maybe months. Yeah, she could go for being unconscious for months.

Varric was already there, of course, and was currently in the middle of telling a highly exaggerated version of the fight with the rock demon to Isabela. He looked up upon seeing Hawke enter. “And there’s the hero herself,” he said.

“Did you really punch a demon in the face?” asked Isabela.

“Mm-hmm.” Hawke plopped herself down at the table as though she was a sack of trash, which she rather felt like anyway.

“Honey,” said Isabela, and her face was sympathetic now. “I heard about Carver. I’m sorry. But you know, I think he’ll probably enjoy life as a Warden? That’s not much consolation, I’m sure, but—”

“What’s the hardest drink you’ve got in this place?” Hawke interrupted her.

“Oh, I know just the thing,” said Isabela, and she stood and headed over to the counter.

Varric looked over at Hawke, concerned. “Are you holding up alright?”

“Never been better,” said Hawke. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. She knew she shouldn’t be such an asshole when her friends were just trying to be supportive, but she couldn’t help but feel irritated. She didn’t want to be doted on. She wanted to get utterly wasted and then forget everything that had happened over the last couple of days.

Fortunately for her, Varric nodded then in realization. “Let me know if I can do anything, okay?”

Hawke mumbled something under her breath, but was otherwise quiet until Isabela came back with drinks. Hawke downed hers immediately, eager to lose any lucidity she had.

Varric and Isabela made conversation as they drank, but they were purposefully tip-toeing around Hawke as they talked and it was annoying her. She knew she was being ridiculous and unfair and she tried to deal with it by drinking more. _Just forget the world, Hawke, forget the world. Forget the fact that you lost your little brother just like you lost your sister._

The evening went on and Hawke got increasingly fuzzy-headed, for which she was grateful, but she also felt increasingly annoyed at everything— especially herself. _Just another fuckup_ , she thought, and then she heard her friends talking about traveling around and seeing the world without fear and she promptly amended her thought process to _just another fuckup apostate_. Isabela had been all over Thedas, to no one’s surprise, and although Varric tended to stay close to home he had been a few places as well. Hawke didn’t think it occurred to either of them that this was a privilege you didn’t get when you were an apostate. Because why would it occur to them? It was an experience they’d never had. No doubt the concept of having to constantly be on the lookout, no matter where you went, was completely foreign to them.

The idea of _mages_ had been on Hawke’s mind a lot lately. Perhaps it was because she’d been spending time with Anders. Perhaps it was because now she lived in Kirkwall, where there were as many templars as there were dogs in Ferelden. Perhaps it was because between her father and Bethany, she’d lost most of the mages in her life— the people who could _understand_ , without her needing to say anything. But regardless of how it came about, she was recently very acutely aware of the fact that she was different and would always be different, and it was draining.

“Did you want me to get you another drink, dear?” Isabela interrupted Hawke’s thoughts.

It was tempting; Hawke couldn’t deny that. She wasn’t as properly shitfaced as she’d like to be yet. But she was also feeling increasingly cranky, and she didn’t want to take it out on her friends. Her bed was beginning to sound like an alluring prospect. “I’m good,” she said, and she stood up. “I think I’m out for the night.”

“Did you want company on your way back home?” Isabela asked.

Hawke’s head was fuzzy and she considered Isabela’s offer for a brief moment before remembering it would probably eventually turn into more sympathy, which was exactly what she was trying to avoid. She shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” she said, and headed for the door.

Home was just a short walk away, but by the time she got there she remembered that she was going to have to face her crying mother again— and probably Gamlen, as well, being an ass as usual and telling Leandra that none of this would have happened if she hadn’t run away with an apostate— and Hawke did not have any of the energy she’d need to deal with any of this.

So she turned and headed to Darktown instead, because fuck it, there was one person who she knew she wouldn’t have to explain any of her conflicting feelings to. There was one person who would just listen.

Going to Darktown, alone, while drunk, was not something Hawke would advise anyone else to do, but since it was herself, well, she didn’t give much of a shit. A few weasel-eyed miscreants eyed her from the shadows, and Hawke glared at them, daring them to try anything— and they’d all heard enough rumors about her by now that they left her alone. 

She stumbled up the steps to the clinic and knocked on the door. It hadn’t occurred to her that Anders might be busy, or asleep, or not at home. She sort of just had the hazy idea that he was there, of course he was there, he had to be there, he had always been there for her before— and sure enough, there he was, just as she’d known he would be, opening the door and widening his eyes in surprise. “Hawke? What are you—”

Hawke stumbled into him and started crying. That hadn’t exactly been part of her initial plan, but now that it was happening, she couldn’t reverse course.

Had Hawke been capable of any sort of critical thinking at that point, she probably would’ve wondered exactly how taken aback by all of this Anders was. She was, of course, _not_ remotely capable of any sort of critical thinking at the moment, which was why she was in Anders’ arms to begin with, and she burrowed into his chest and he wrapped his arms around her and held her. He had his chin on her head and she was pressed into his warm coat, which smelled like feathers and dust and healing herbs and just a little bit like wood after the rain. He said nothing; he just held her, and that was exactly what she wanted.

After a few minutes she ran out of tears— for the moment, anyway— and she sniffled. “I got your coat wet,” she said lamely.

“You did,” said Anders matter-of-factly. He was still holding her, and he said the words into her hair. “And you also smell like alcohol.”

“Mmmf.” Hawke mumbled it into his coat. She was now aware of how awkward this was, but she also did not want to move. The moment was nice, and Anders was soft and warm.

“Let’s get out of the doorway, at least,” said Anders. “Okay?” He pulled away and looked Hawke in the eyes. His own were full of endless amounts of concern, and Hawke was suddenly self-conscious of how she must have looked herself, and she looked away and nodded.

Anders tugged her inside the clinic and shut the door with one one hand, keeping the other around her waist. Hawke still had her hands up on his coat— she knew the moment was coming to an end, and she was loathe to reach that point. Not just yet. He looked down at her; his eyebrows were pursed and he was biting his lower lip just a bit. There was a lock of loose hair falling in front of his forehead, and for that minute he was much more handsome than Hawke thought he had any right to be. “I’d ask you how you’re doing, but I think that would be a bit silly,” he said, and he smiled softly.

“Probably,” said Hawke. Anders wasn’t pushing her away; he was letting her have as much time as she needed to stay in his arms, and she was tipsy enough to want to take full advantage of that. It didn’t help that she thought she could feel the tears coming again, so she looked down and pressed her head into his chest.

And Anders held her, again; patiently and without comment, and let her cry. And this cry was a little shorter than the last one had been and soon Hawke was sniffling again. “You may have to wash your coat,” she said once she could articulate words.

“Nah. You’re just giving it more character.” Hawke could feel him smiling into her hair and she wanted that moment to last forever. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s sit down. Can you do that?”

Hawke was reluctant to abandon her current position in Anders’ arms, but she nodded. Anders led her over to his desk and gently sat Hawke down in his chair, and then he hopped up onto his desk and sat there, his long legs dangling over the edge. He looked over at Hawke and was terribly sincere as he did so. “This can’t be easy for you,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I wish there was more I could do to help.”

“You’re fine,” said Hawke, which was true. “I just… I guess… I needed someone who…” she sighed and tried again. “I love Varric and Isabela. They are wonderful friends. But they aren’t… they aren’t mages.” It was tough to spit that last bit out, and she wanted to fold in on herself in self-loathing. She hated everything about herself at that moment. She hated that she’d failed Carver, she hated that she’d failed her mother, she hated that she was a mage, and she definitely hated that she even felt this way to begin with when other mages and even some other non-mages no doubt had it worse than she did…

But Anders just nodded. “I know,” he said quietly, and those two words were so much more reassuring than Hawke thought they could ever be. It was as though he could read and comprehend every last bit of the self-hatred Hawke was pouring on herself currently— and maybe he could. She didn’t know. She’d let herself believe it, though, at least for now, because that was all she could do.

They sat in silence for a minute before Anders spoke up again. “I don’t know if this will help at all, but you’re starting to grow on Justice. He likes the way you take charge. And that’s high praise coming from a spirit of virtue.”

Hawke was sorely tempted to ask if she was growing on _Anders_ as well, but decided she’d better not. Instead, she asked something she was genuinely curious about. “What’s it like? With Justice, I mean. Do you… hear him? Talking?”

“It’s… difficult to say, really,” Anders admitted. “I don’t quite know how to explain it. Not even the greatest scholar could tell where Justice ends and I begin.”

“Try to explain it,” said Hawke, and she leaned forward in her chair, her eyes on Anders. “It’s interesting. More interesting than me feeling sorry for myself.” She offered an ironic smile.

“In that case,” Anders smiled his own half-smile, “I’ll do my best to oblige. Do you know the little voice in the back of your head sometimes? Telling you to do or not do something? It’s sort of like that. The emotions are a little more clear, though, a little easier to pick out. Most of the time, anyway. It’s as though… if you had a group of threads all tangled up, two different colors…” Anders intertwined his fingers together to demonstrate. “And one color was myself, and the other color was Justice. When times are quiet, and I can think on it, I can sit there and untangle the mess. I can tell you which threads are what. Which thoughts belong to me, and which thoughts belong to Justice. But other times, when lots of things are happening or emotions are high— that’s when I can’t untangle the threads. That’s when I can’t tell what is me and what is Justice. And that’s usually when Justice takes over.”

“Damn,” said Hawke.

“Tell me about it,” Anders chuckled. “Justice isn’t doing it just to make things difficult, of course. He’s a spirit, and he sees the world differently than I do. Well, for the most part. We both want to hurl fireballs at templars. That’s one thing we can bond over!” His smile faded, though, and he grew serious. “I just hope I haven’t changed him,” he said. “I worry that my anger has corrupted him into something he is not. That’s how spirits and demons work, you know. There are spirits of valor and demons of rage. Spirits of justice… and demons of vengeance. I worry that… that's what he's become. Vengeance.” He looked down at the ground.

Hawke shook her head. “Not possible,” she said.

Anders looked up at her. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Hawke shrugged. “I may not know much about demons, but I always figured you’d have to be a bad person to corrupt a spirit. And you are basically the exact opposite of a bad person, so.”

“Your faith in me knows no bounds,” said Anders, and it was clearly meant as a joke but his eyes showed that he was genuinely touched. “Anyway. He was wary when we spent time around you, at first, but he’s coming to respect you. Especially after you punched that demon. Which was pretty fantastic, if I might say so myself.”

Hawke smiled, but the talk of the rock demon reminded her of the Deep Roads and losing Carver, and her smile faded. “I should've done more to protect Carver,” she said. “I should’ve been quicker at killing the darkspawn. The one that jumped on his leg…”

Anders shook his head. “It might have been that, but it might not have been. The taint is carried all throughout the Deep Roads. It… it emanates from the walls. There might have been nothing you could do.”

“I shouldn’t have taken him, then.”

“He wanted to go,” Anders said. “I mean, he didn’t tell me as much, but from what I know of Carver, he would have hated to stay behind. If it hadn’t been him, Hawke, it might have been you. He’d have hated himself if it had been you. And… I would’ve hated myself too.”

He was right, of course, and Hawke knew it deep down, but that didn’t make it any easier. Still, it was a start. “I don’t know if I ever thanked you,” she said, “For taking us to the wardens. If you hadn’t, Carver would be dead right now. You didn’t want to go down there and you did anyway. For me. For us.”

Anders laughed nervously and pink blush spread across his cheeks and up to his ears. He scratched his neck. “It was the least I could do, in return for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Like what?” Hawke teased. “All I ever do is drag you into trouble.”

“Exactly,” said Anders. “You’re a friend. And that means a lot to me.”

 _Andraste’s blood, how is he so adorable?_ Hawke could hardly stand it. All she’d done was be nice to him and somehow it had earned her his unyielding devotion. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to turn it down. Nor did she want to take advantage of it by overstaying her welcome, though. She stood. “I should be off. I don’t want to cry on your shoulder all night.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Anders softly as he stood too.

Oh, _that_ did it. She was drunk and he was too cute, and Hawke stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Tease,” she whispered into his ear before pulling away and then looking at him, satisfied.

Anders may have been blushing before but his entire face was crimson now, and for a moment Hawke was concerned that his look of utter shock would give way to dismay— but no, he just stared at Hawke a moment before finally his open mouth turned into a bashful smile and he looked down at the ground. “Goodnight, Hawke,” he said.

He was still smiling when Hawke left— and so was she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the world's most exciting chapter but it was fun to write. :) Hopefully less angst and more story with the next update. Thanks for reading!


	12. Snakes Are Biting At My Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke moves into the estate and Anders moves (further) into her heart. Now with 100% more unresolved sexual tension!

Merrill was lost when Hawke found her.

Hawke hadn’t been out looking for her specifically. She’d been out in Lowtown running some errands and she’d happened to run into Merrill, who promptly told her that she had been trying and failing to find her way back to the alienage all afternoon.

So Hawke led her back. Merrill was chatty and Hawke listened as she told her, in detail, all about growing up with the clan. “I think you would’ve liked it, Hawke,” she said. “You would make a good elf.”

“Is that… a compliment?” Hawke chuckled.

“Oh yes! You would’ve fight right in with my friends. It was myself, Tamlen, and Mahariel.” She looked away, now, and scratched her head nervously. “I miss them.”

“What happened to them?” Hawke asked.

“I… something bad,” Merrill said. Hawke didn’t know if Merrill was going to continue, and she was about to tell her it was okay if she didn’t want to talk about it, but her voice became resolute and she said “But I’m going to make it up to them. They found something, and… it may have been bad for them, but I think I can fix it. I think I can make it right and help my clan.”

“What… did they find?” Hawke asked. Somehow she didn’t exactly like the sound of whatever this was.

“I can show you, actually,” Merrill said, her voice sprightly. “It’s at my house. I had my neighbors help me carry it. It was a bit heavy.”

They had reached the alienage and Hawke was quite curious by now. “I’m not sure if I should be afraid of what you’re going to show me or not,” she said.

Merrill giggled. “You don’t have to be afraid,” she said. “It won’t hurt you. It’s just a mirror.” She pushed open the door to her home and she and Hawke stepped inside.

“A mirror that did bad things to your friends,” Hawke reminded her.

“Well, I mean. Yes. There was that. It had something to do with the Blight, I think. But that’s all over now, isn’t it?”

“That’s… not exactly reassuring, you know,” said Hawke.

“It’s not all bad,” said Merrill, and she led Hawke into a side room. “You’ll see.”

Hawke looked up at the artifact in front of her and was taken aback. Merrill had said there would be a mirror, but this was— well, it may have been a mirror, but it was also something else entirely. It was unlike any mirror Hawke had ever seen before, that much was certain. The entire thing looked like a twisted mess of magic given physical form. It was also broken; most of the glass was gone but a few jagged shards remained around the edges, clinging onto it like the last few stubborn teeth on an old tiger. Hawke didn’t trust it, and she felt more than a little odd about the idea that she didn’t trust an _object_ , but it couldn’t be helped. In this case, she thought her mistrust was probably justified.

“That’s a, um… quite a thing you’ve got there, Merrill,” said Hawke.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Merrill asked.

“I don’t know if I’d use that word in particular, but that might just be me.” Personally, she thought _terrifying_ might be a better word.

“It’s broken… as you can see,” said Merrill, and she approached it casually as though it was just a normal mirror and not a nightmare version of one. “But I’m going to fix it.”

“Not to be a killjoy, but couldn’t you just, I don’t know… buy a new mirror?” Hawke remained where she was in the doorway.

“Oh, this is a special mirror,” said Merrill, and she turned to look at Hawke. “It’s Dalish. It’s called an eluvian. The ancient elves had them, and we don’t know exactly what they were for. We think they might have been for communication.” She looked back at the mirror, intently now. “Whatever it is, there is lost knowledge in it. And if I can fix it, and learn what everything I can about it— I can use that to help my clan. Everything the ancient elves knew— we might be able to know it too. That’s worth trying to fix a mirror for.”

She sounded absolutely determined, and even though Hawke wouldn’t personally go anywhere near an object that looked like this, well— at least it was broken. And at least Merrill was smart, and knew more about ancient elven things than Hawke knew she ever could, herself. “It’s, uh… quite a find,” Hawke said at last. “And I wish you luck with it.”

“Thank you, Hawke,” said Merrill genuinely. She was beaming, and Hawke was glad she’d made her happy.

She was eager to change the subject, though. “So!” Hawke exclaimed. “Since I’ve got you here. Or, more appropriately, since you’ve got me here. How would you like to help me?”

“Oh! Of course!” Merrill spun around on her and she was genuinely excited. “So long as it’s not about those Deep Roads that you were in a few weeks ago? I don’t know if I would be good at fighting darkspawn.”

Hawke shook her head. “No darkspawn involved,” she said. “I’ve bought an estate with the treasure we found down there, though. I was wondering if you would like to help my mother and I move in? It shouldn’t take long— we don’t own much.”

From the look of Merrill’s wide eyes, she thought this was perhaps the greatest idea in the history of Thedas. “I would love to! Just nothing heavy. Like the eluvian. You know. I got help with that. I’m babbling, sorry. Oh, when did you want to meet, though? Or did I ask that already?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” said Hawke, and then she tilted her head a bit. “You… do know how to get to my uncle’s place? It’s just… a bit up the road?”

Merrill giggled. “It’s easy to find your place, Hawke,” she said. “I just have to go where all the trouble is!”

  


The next day, everyone showed up at Gamlen’s place to help move Hawke and Leandra out. Everyone— including Aveline, who came to wish her well, although she couldn’t stay to help. She had recently been made Guard-Captain and Hawke hadn’t seen her around as much after that. She loved it, though; she thrived on it and that made Hawke happy.

Gamlen left soon after they’d started. He snorted something about how unfair it all was that he wasn’t invited to the new place (Hawke figured she should have been surprised by his proclamation, but really, she wasn’t) and then left, presumably to get drunk. The mood lightened up considerably at this point, and each of her friends loaded up on something and they set off to Hightown.

Hawke hadn’t seen Anders for a few weeks. She hadn’t been in any mental state to leave the house much, beyond securing the negotiations on the family estate and occasional sojourns to the nearby Hanged Man. It was just as well; she figured Anders was a busy man and she didn’t want to bother him. He was, in fact, busy when she’d approached him in his clinic the day before and asked if he would help her move out. He’d talked to her briefly between treating patients and immediately agreed to help her even before she told him what he’d be helping her with. Once she told him that she simply needed help moving house, he earnestly told her that she deserved it. That was when she playfully shoved him and told him to stop being so cute, and he riposted with his own playful shove and “well, _you_ stop being so cute then”. It was blatant flirting, and Hawke couldn’t help but wonder if he was like that with all his friends or just her.

She hoped it was just her.

The walk was a jovial one, and her friends made conversation as they went. Varric and Fenris bantered back and forth— the latter was quite talkative, when he was in the mood to be— and Isabela and Merrill had a conversation about if there were any cute elves in Merrill's life (there weren't) and whether or not Merrill would be interested in spending some time with a cute pirate (maybe). Anders was mostly silent as he hung in the back with the sack he was holding, and Hawke wanted to say _something_ to him, but she wasn't quite sure _what_.

Isabela finally provided a conversation topic, although it wasn’t exactly what Hawke had in mind.

“So, Anders,” she said, turning back to look at him and Hawke. “Perhaps you should tell our dear friend Hawke here about that electricity trick you know.”

“Electricity…” Anders’ face turned red. “I’m, uh, quite sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is that so?” Isabela asked playfully. “Well, I’ve got a story that I’m sure will jog your memory a bit. Hawke, allow me to tell you about one of Anders’ escape attempts. See, I was spending time in Denerim, and our dashing mage friend here shows up one day…”

“Uh, I don’t know if this is a story that needs telling,” said Anders. He reached up with his free hand and scratched underneath his coat collar.

Isabela was undeterred as she continued to talk animatedly to Hawke. “So I was in the brothel, and in comes this roguish young mage. Wearing robes, not even bothering to hide that he’s obviously an apostate. He’s got one ear pierced and a strut the likes of which I rarely see, and mind you, I’ve seen a lot of people strutting. Anyway, he charmed the pants off almost everyone in the establishment. _Literally_ charmed the pants off them. Men and women alike. Everyone wanted a go with the mage. He came back a few nights in a row so everyone could have their chance. So naturally, I finally decided to go see what all the fuss was about, and…”

“Okay, um, _really_ , you can stop now,” said Anders, who was by now a very deep shade of crimson.

“Aww, but I’m just now getting to the good part!” Isabela winked at him.

Hawke was torn between finding this all immensely amusing (and very endearing), and wanting to protect Anders from further embarrassment. “Alright, Isabela,” she said. “You can stop… I’m sure Anders can tell me all the details himself later.” She turned to look at him and put on her best set of puppy dog eyes. “Won’t you?”

“Oh, telling is boring, dear,” said Isabela. “Let him _show_ you.”

“Isabela!” Anders’ voice was almost a squeak.

And Isabela laughed at that. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said finally. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Now now,” Hawke chuckled, “Anders is a good man. Be nice to him.”

“He is definitely a good man where it counts,” said Isabela, and she laughed again. “I’m sorry! Oh, I’m just going to stop talking.”

“Please do,” Fenris called out from ahead of them.

So they went back to bantering about other things, and Hawke was left wondering about Anders’ past. The years had clearly taken their toll on him, and the poor man didn’t deserve it. She looked over at him and the dark bags under his eyes and the worried expression that so often settled itself between his brows. He deserved better.

She’d do her best to be a friend to him, she decided. It was really all she could do, for better or for worse.

  


When they arrived in Hightown, Bodahn Feddic and Sandal were waiting for them outside the estate. Hawke hadn’t seen him since the incident in the Deep Roads, and Bodahn was immediately bowing and apologizing. “Messere Hawke! I am so, so sorry about what happened during the expedition. I don’t know what got into Bartrand’s head. You know, it’s like he went mad. As soon as Sandal and I got out we split ties with him immediately. I haven’t seen him since then. I think he’s left town. But I’m so glad to see that you made it out.”

Hawke peered at him. “And you’re here because…”

“Oh of course, pardon me,” said Bodahn. “I was thinking that Sandal and I could offer our services to you once you’re all settled in. If that’s something you’re interested in. Sandal’s skill as an enchanter should prove quite useful.”

“Enchantment?” Sandal asked.

“Yes, that’s right!” said Bodahn. “Would you like to enchant things for Messere Hawke?”

“Enchantment!” Sandal exclaimed.

Varric nodded his approval. “Could be useful,” he said. “Something to think about.”

“Indeed! Think about it and let me know.” Bodahn looked over at the others. “Did you need any more help moving in?”

“I think we’ve got it,” said Hawke, “But thank you.”

They made their way inside the building, and Hawke was struck, not for the first time, by just how spacious it was. Never in her life had she lived in a place like this, with stairs and high-vaulted ceilings and a foyer. To Hawke, it all seemed just a bit excessive for two people. But her mother— who had been there since that morning, tweaking the place to her heart’s content— was ecstatic to be back at the Amell estate, and so long as she was happy, Hawke was happy.

Hawke’s friends helped her set down her things and arrange them the way she and her mother wanted, and Leandra was grateful and thanked them all profusely. Isabela then immediately began offering surprisingly good suggestions on how best to decorate the place, and Hawke was more than happy to let her do that. It was nice, for a time, to pretend that things were normal and that she was just another average well-off citizen.

She was upstairs, staring out one of the place’s immense windows, when Anders approached and stood next to her. “So,” he said, “I guess this means you won’t be spending as much time with us common folk now.”

He was being sarcastic, but Hawke snorted. “Why do I feel like that’s an insult?”

“You can get a nice cushy job in the city,” Anders continued, “And never have to go looking for people— or darkspawn, I guess— to kill ever again.”

“Okay, that’s definitely an insult,” said Hawke. “I’ll be up to all sorts of trouble before you know it. That’s my middle name, in fact. ‘Trouble’.”

“How many middle names do you have?” Anders grinned cheekily.

“Enough of them,” Hawke said.

“And what do I have to do to learn your first?”

“Oh, you have to earn that.” Hawke riposted.

“Earn it?”

“Mm-hmm. Or perhaps we could work out a trade. You tell me all about this electricity thing Isabela was going on about, and…”

Anders laughed and Hawke fell in love with him just a little bit more every single time he did. “Now _that_ story,” he said, “Is something that _you_ have to earn.”

“Or I could just ask Isabela,” said Hawke.

“You could, but only a mage can give a demonstration.”

 _That_ piqued Hawke’s interest. She turned and sidled up to Anders, tilting her head up to look at him while she held her arms behind her back. “Are you volunteering?”

He looked down at her, all storm and spirit and fire and molten gold that he was, and she looked right back up at him, and… that’s when Merrill popped up beside them. “Hawke, I— oh! Am I interrupting something important?”

“No,” said Anders innocently, and he turned away, _damn him all the way down to the Black City and back._ “We were just talking about how Hawke is a respectable citizen now who won’t be getting into any trouble anymore.”

Merrill burst out giggling. “Oh, Hawke will get into trouble alright. That’s how I always know where to find her.”

Isabela walked up behind her, but she was pouting. “Oh, I thought maybe Hawke and Anders were finally making out. This is disappointing.”

“Tell me about it,” said Hawke.

Anders, in response, put on a rather virtuous expression and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Varric and Fenris appeared now as well; the latter had somehow acquired a glass of wine, which Isabela was immediately interested in. “Where did you get that?”

“Complimentary,” said Fenris. “From Leandra, with her gratitude.” He looked over at Hawke and lifted his glass. “To your new home, Hawke. May it serve you well.”

“And may you never get lost,” said Merrill. “Which I do. A lot. But you might not do. Or you might? Sorry. I’ll stop babbling.”

Hawke walked over to the balcony and leaned over the railing. She couldn’t even begin to hazard a guess on what the future might hold at this point, or what she should even do with her life. What was she, even, if she wasn’t dodging templars or killing bandits in order to fund her next meal?

Well, she’d sort that out tomorrow. For now—

“So, what do you all think about catching up with my mother and getting ourselves some of that wine?” Hawke turned and headed downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaahhh so sorry for the tease (not sorry!)
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!


	13. Of Gold Hair and Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke has a brief encounter with Justice.

Hawke lasted about two months before she found trouble again.

In her defense, she thought, she wasn’t out looking for it on purpose. Rather, it found her.

For the last several weeks she had been trying to find steady work and she wasn’t exactly having much success with it. Everything in Hightown was so terribly _dull_. Oh, she _could_ spend the bulk of her day standing in one spot and selling something, but she didn’t trust herself to not want to kill something by the time that day was over.

Isabela, at one point, suggested she try looking for work at the local brothel, the Blooming Rose. “That job is easy,” she’d said. “You just have to lie there and pretend the men know what they’re doing.”

That sounded just as unappealing as standing in one spot peddling shirts all day. “I’m not _that_ good at acting,” Hawke said.

“You know,” said Isabela thoughtfully— they were strolling through Hightown now— “What happened to that friend you have in the city guard? You know, the one with the stick up her ass who never hangs out with us anymore. Aveline?”

“Yeah,” said Hawke. “She’s the guard-captain.”

“She might have some jobs for you,” said Isabela. “You know, interesting ones. Ones that involve killing people. That _is_ the sort of thing you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

“I’m pretty sure they leave guard business to the guards,” said Hawke, but it was a promising thought nonetheless. If anyone in town would have something interesting to do, it was Aveline.

So off she went to her office in the viscount’s keep. Isabela opted to stay outside— “it’s too stuffy in there”—and Hawke went in alone.

She didn’t stay for long. Aveline was out. “Would you like if I took a message for you, serah?” asked a nice man named Donnic whom Hawke had seen now and again.

“Do you know when Aveline will be in, next? Tomorrow morning, maybe?” Hawke asked.

Donnic nodded. “She’ll be here tomorrow.”

“I’ll come back,” said Hawke.

She caught up to Isabela a few minutes later. “That was quick,” she said.

“Aveline won’t be back in until tomorrow morning,” Hawke said.

“Morning?” Isabela’s voice dripped with disgust. “Why do people have to do things in the morning? It’s so… unnecessary.”

“Yeah, but you know Aveline. It’s the only time you’re gonna catch her not being busy.” Hawke looked up. “So. Hanged Man?”

  


Hawke was suffering from a hangover when she decided she agreed with Isabela’s assessment that doing things in the morning was quite unnecessary.

But she needed work, and her current best bet for finding work was talking to Aveline, so she painfully got dressed and stumbled out the door at dawn.

That was when she decided to detour to Darktown because she finally had an excuse to go see Anders. Oh, she had seen him here and there, over the last couple of months, but she hadn’t actually been to visit him in a while.

Hawke thought that things had gotten a little odd between them since their blatant flirting the day she’d moved into the estate. She had been hoping that maybe that had melted the ice a little, but Anders’ response had actually been to distance himself again. It disappointed Hawke, but she didn’t blame him. He had his reasons and she respected them.

But that didn’t change the fact that she missed his smile and his laugh.

She had a bit of a conversation to herself as she wandered down to his clinic. _Stop making excuses to visit him_ , her brain told her. _You’ll just fall in love with him more and then it’ll just hurt more because you can’t have him, you_ know _you can’t have him_. _Why are you doing this?_

 _Because_ , she thought, _I need that smile and I need that laugh. I need that soul he’s got, all wrapped in flames like it is. Even if I can only have it for a few minutes at a time._

 _Oh now you’re just being damn pathetic_ , her brain retorted. _Romance never got you anywhere._

 _Okay, but I have a fucking bad headache, and he’s a healer,_ she thought back.

 _…fair_ , said her brain, and finally settled.

“Mmmrrff. Anders?” Hawke knocked on the door. It occurred to her after knocking she was probably waking him up, and she felt bad about it. Why did she even expect he would answer? He was busy, and he needed his sleep, and he had patients to see, and he had so many things to do and so many people to care about aside from her, and maybe she should just turn around and tough it out and…

The door opened. Anders was rubbing his eyes, but he blinked the sleep away quickly. “Hawke? Are you alright? You… kind of look like shit. No offense.”

“I kind of feel like shit,” said Hawke. “Please tell me you’ve got a cure for a hangover.”

Anders chuckled, which meant that the entire trek out to Darktown had been worth it. “Spending too much time at the Hanged Man again? Come in.”

She followed him inside the clinic and watched him as he began rummaging around at a table of vials and herbs. It was the first time she’d ever seen him wearing something that wasn’t his typical feathered coat. Instead he wore a plain brown tunic and trousers. Somehow the simple outfit seemed to accentuate his features rather than lessen them. He was slim, but as she’d guessed back when she first met him, he did have some build in his upper body and his arms. He was no warrior, but nor was he a slouch.

There was a scar hidden away under that shirt, Hawke knew. Right above Anders’ heart. She wondered how many people knew that. She wondered if she was the only one who did.

Anders looked over at her and Hawke averted her eyes. “What are you doing up at this hour, anyway?” Anders asked.

“Going to see Aveline,” Hawke said. “You should come.”

“I don’t think she likes me much.” Anders was using a mortar and pestle on some elfroot and something else Hawke couldn’t identify.

“So? Come anyway. It’ll be boring without you.” She wanted to add that her life was _always_ boring without him in it, but she decided to be good and not add that tidbit. She tilted her head up at him. “It’ll be fun,” she said.

Anders wasn’t looking at her; he was currently focused on mixing his new concoction up with some water. “This is going to taste awful,” he said. “Just to warn you.”

“What, you can’t blend it with chocolate or something?” Hawke asked. “Or, like… some bacon? That’s what I did for Shadow when he hurt his leg once. We bought some medicine from the neighbor and wrapped it up in bacon. Shadow had no idea.”

Anders poured the complete mixture into a small cup and handed it to Hawke. “As they say in Orlais: bon appétit!”

Hawke took the cup from him and carefully took a drink. Anders was right: the mixture was vile. Still, she tried to put on a brave face as she downed it, but afterward she squinted and shuddered. “Okay, really,” she almost choked. “Mix it with chocolate or… _something_.”

“I’ve had worse,” Anders said matter-of-factly. “That’s how I became a Grey Warden in fact. Oh, oops, wasn’t supposed to say that.” He smiled at her. “Anyway, it should help a little.”

“Thanks,” said Hawke dryly. She put down the cup and looked back up at Anders. “So. Aveline. And me and you. What do you say?”

“Why do you need to see Aveline?” Anders crossed his arms. He was much prettier than any man was supposed to be in a brown shirt. _It’s infuriating, really._

“I need a job,” said Hawke. “The treasure from the Deep Roads may have got us a house and good start, but eventually I’m going to need to keep putting food on the table.”

“I don’t know if the city guard hires mages,” Anders quipped.

“Hey, freelancing work is a thing,” said Hawke. “And Aveline trusts me. Kind of. Maybe. Okay I don’t think she trusts me but I do know how to kill people, and she likes that.”

“And you need me there because…”

“I don’t want to go alone,” said Hawke, which was true. “I’m not… I’m not used to it,” she added, which she hadn’t actually been intending to add. It just sort of popped out. She thought of Carver, suddenly. She used to go everywhere with him. She banished the thought from her mind quickly. She didn’t want to bring the mood down.

Anders always had soft eyes, but there were times when he somehow managed to bend the rules of reality and soften them even more. This was one of those times. “Alright,” he acquiesced.

Hawke looked up. No matter how often he agreed to help her— which was often— it still always caught her off guard, as though his presence was something she didn’t _quite_ deserve. “Really?” she asked.

“Of course,” said Anders. “Just… let me get dressed?”

“…okay,” said Hawke.

Anders laughed. “With you out of the building, I mean.”

 _Damn_. “I’ll look the other way,” Hawke said. “And I won’t peek. For real. I mean. I might peek once or twice, but…”

Anders was smiling, but he was firm. “I’ll join you when I’m dressed,” he said.

So Hawke headed for the door, but she was opting for a new tactic as she went. “You could just come dressed like that,” she said. “Maker knows you look good enough to…”

Anders quirked an eyebrow at her and she paused at the door to look at him. He was friendly, but he was also clearly rejecting her awkward advances. _Double damn_. “Alright,” she conceded at last, and left the building.

She stood outside and waited for him and wondered if there were cracks in the door that she could peer through. Then she wondered if she would actually peer through them if there were. She decided that no, she wouldn’t betray his trust, but it would still be _damn_ tempting. Anders was quick, at least, and joined Hawke after just a few moments. He was still buckling all of the ridiculous straps on his coat when he walked out of his clinic. And that was too cute for Hawke to deal with, and she walked up to him and took some of the straps in her hands and buckled them herself. Or, at least, attempted to. “How do these even work?” she asked.

“Through the rings,” said Anders, who didn’t seem to have any objection to Hawke’s help (or the fact that she was now standing a few inches in front of him). “Here, see, you thread it through like this.” He took a strap from Hawke and demonstrated, winding it through one of the brass rings on his coat and then fastening it.

“It just seems so excessive,” said Hawke.

“You don’t like it?” Anders faked a hurt expression.

Hawke socked him on the shoulder. Gently. He knew she thought he was cute and he was taking full advantage of it.

It would be nice to know if the opposite was true.

She shook away the thought. “Come on,” she said. “Aveline doesn’t know how to wait around.”

The two of them headed to Hightown. Neither of them had their staves with them, because walking around as an open apostate in broad daylight was suicide, but Hawke always felt a little bit naked without hers. She wondered if Anders felt even more so. He seemed to be nervous and flighty, often looking this way and that, and Hawke realized, suddenly, that she had lived her whole life much the same way and had simply _never realized it_. She was good at acting like a “normal person”, but deep down, wasn’t she always at least a little scared? Wasn’t she always ready to run, or fight, or try to talk someone out of their suspicion? Wasn’t that why she felt naked without her staff?

Thus far, Hawke had managed to avoid being punished simply for living a normal life. Anders hadn’t been so lucky.

They passed quickly by the chantry to get to the viscount’s keep and from there headed directly to Aveline’s office. She was there at her desk, papers strewn about, and she looked up at them. “Ah, Hawke. And… Anders.” She didn’t sound particularly thrilled to see him and Hawke immediately felt possessive. Why was she looking at him like that? Was it because he was a mage? The hair on the back of her neck bristled, but she tried to calm herself. It couldn’t be that. Not everything was about mages.

Or was it?

Anyway. “Aveline,” said Hawke, and nodded back. She was on edge now but she was determined to keep it down. “How are things?”

“Going well enough, I suppose,” said Aveline. “Donnic says you wanted to speak to me.”

Of course— right down to business. “I need a job,” said Hawke. “Got any freelance work? You know— people you want me to kill?”

“Always getting into trouble,” said Aveline.

Hawke shrugged. “You know me.”

“Well,” said Aveline, and she picked up one of the papers on her desk. “You know I can’t have you do any _official_ business, but— as it turns out, there are a few things you do that would help me out quite a bit.”

“I’m all ears.” Hawke bent down and rested her elbows on the table.

Aveline ignored her and handed her the paper. “Here. There’s some Orlesian in Hightown who won’t shut up about sending people to guard some pet project of his,” she said, “And a few bandits in Lowtown that need clearing out. Nothing I’m sure you can’t handle. The city will pay you, of course.”

Hawke scanned the list. “Consider it done,” she said, and she turned to leave. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk after Aveline’s suspicious glance at Anders earlier.

“Hawke,” said Aveline, and Hawke turned. “I appreciate it, but I don’t know if I can supply jobs for you forever. Eventually you might have to stop killing people.”

“Perish the thought,” said Hawke, and she waved a hand around nonchalantly and headed out the office door.

“You needed me for that, huh?” Anders asked as they exited the building.

“You say that as though I don’t always need you,” said Hawke, mentally adding that outburst to her list of unintentional flirts after she said it.

“Has anyone ever told you, Hawke, that you are insufferable?” They were out in the bright sunlight of the morning, now, and Anders squinted up at the sky. He looked taller than usual, somehow, his aquiline nose sharp and defined against the cloudless blue skies.

“You love me really,” Hawke replied. _Oops, unintentional flirt number two._

Anders’ next words of chastisement never came, because he was peering down the steps at something. Hawke followed his gaze and saw a man dressed in white armor and an old woman in robes, arguing with each other right outside the chantry.

“That’s… Grand Cleric Elthina,” said Anders, and his voice was disbelieving. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen her before.”

Hawke hadn’t, either, but the woman was indeed wearing the distinctive robes of a Grand Cleric. She took a few steps closer and Anders followed behind. Soon enough they were in earshot of them and Hawke could hear what the two of them were arguing about. The man— whom Elthina called Sebastian— had put up a notice on the chanters’ board asking for help avenging his murdered family. And Elthina wasn’t impressed. “Stop this madness,” she said. “The Chantry cannot condone revenge.”

“But it can condone torture,” Anders muttered beside Hawke before looking the other direction.

Hawke snorted. Oh, how very dear to her his honesty was.

“It is my right— my duty— to show these assassins that there is nowhere in the Free Marches to hide,” Sebastian replied with a thick Starkhaven accent. He turned to leave, but not before Elthina sent him a parting shot. “This is murder,” she said.

“No. What happened to my family was murder.” And he marched off, hardly giving Anders and Hawke a glance.

Elthina looked over at them now— her eyes somehow unsettling and steely, hardly warm like Hawke would’ve expected from a Grand Cleric— and then she turned and retreated back inside the Chantry.

Almost as soon as she had, Hawke nearly bounded down the rest of the steps and made for the board. “Oooh,” she said, eying the sign. “He’s royalty.”

“A royal prat, you mean?” Anders grinned down at her as he approached.

“Now now, Anders,” Hawke teased him. “We’ve hardly met the man.”

“True, but with that armor? He’s a prat.”

“And he’s rich,” said Hawke. “That’s the important part. I think I’ll just… take this…” she removed the notice from the board and folded it in with the paper that Aveline had given her. “There. Now if we run across anything we’ll be ready to bring in a couple extra sovereigns. Alright, I think we’re done here…” Hawke looked up at Anders, and saw that he was staring up at the chantry. “Anders?” she asked him.

Anders was still looking up. “I was an Andrastrian once,” he said. “A good one. Said my prayers every night. Read the Chant. But now…”

Hawke tilted her head. “Now you’re… not?”

“Now I… now I just don’t know.” He looked down. “There is so much _good_ in what Andraste teaches. And yet the Chantry twists her words and uses them to… to _justify_ so much that is wrong. They hold exalted marches in her name against nonbelievers. They rip mages away from their families when they are children— _children_ , and they shackle them and collar them and—” His voice and demeanor were changing as he spoke, and he looked back up again with fearlessness and determination and his eyes were burning blue with the Fade. “And I will not stand for it,” he said at last, and now his voice was not that of Anders, but of—

“…Justice?” Hawke whispered, and it was a reverent whisper, because to see Anders and Justice then, all crackling lighting and burning blue flame, was a sight that truly deserved reverence if anything ever did.

“Hawke.” It was Justice speaking, and he looked down at her, and his eyes were a storm. Hawke tried to read those eyes and that expression, to tell what Justice was thinking and what he thought of her. But he was a fade spirit, and she couldn’t puzzle him out.

Not yet.

She would, she vowed. Someday.

But today was not that day, because then the storm faded from his eyes and he was just a man again. He blinked. “Hawke?” It was Anders.

“Are you alright?” He seemed dazed. Hawke had no idea how much, if anything, it took out of him when Justice manifested, and she reached out to touch him gently.

If Anders was bothered by Hawke’s hand on his chest, he didn’t show it. “Was that… Justice?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm,” said Hawke. “Could you… not tell?”

Anders shook his head. “I can sometimes, but not always. And as time goes on our thoughts get… more and more similar. And that just makes it all the more difficult to tell what is myself and what is him.” He looked down at Hawke’s hand now, and she pulled it away.

“I like him,” said Hawke. “Justice, I mean.”

Anders smiled. “I think that is the first time anyone has ever told me that,” he said.

“Good,” said Hawke. “I mean. Not good. That no one else has told you that. But. Good that it was me.”

Anders laughed. “You’re a dear friend, Hawke,” he said. “Better than I deserve.”

They chatted amicably as they headed back to Darktown. She dropped him off at his clinic, and she was loathe to say goodbye to him, as she increasingly was as the days went on. But he smiled at her and _Maker take me if I can’t write a poem to the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles_ , and as she left she realized that she was not only hoping to see Anders again soon, but was hoping to see Justice again soon as well.

_Really, Hawke? Now you’re seriously in love with a fade spirit, too?_

Isabela would never let her hear the end of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I've got a lot of filler chapters going on so hopefully no one is getting tired of Hawke's super lame flirting, because, well... there will be more. Thank you for the comments and kudos so far!


	14. Somewhere Only We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke has an ominous dream, gets into trouble, has a brief _moment_ with Anders, and then promptly gets into trouble yet again.

_Why do you even like him?_

Hawke wasn’t sure where the question was coming from. Everything was fuzzy and gray and green. Where was she? What had she been doing? Was she at the Hanged Man, getting smashed with Isabela again? Had she had too much to drink again? _You’ve gotta stop doing that, Hawke, come on._

She was outside Lothering. Carver and Bethany were there with her, although they were a little ways away, not paying attention to her. There was a breeze in the air, softly blowing past the long grass of the countryside, but it seemed to bring a warning with it, as though the wind itself was carrying a whispered message. She couldn’t quite pick it out…

_…why him? Why Anders, of all people?_

_Why the renegade apostate?_

“It’s not like that,” Hawke said to the wind, but it was all futile. Of course it was like that. Of course it was like that, and why, _why_ was the infuriating thing. _Do you see yourself in him, Hawke? All fire and heart? Do you see yourself if you actually took things more seriously? If everything was less of a joke?_

_Has it occurred to you that maybe he sees himself in you, too? That maybe you remind him of a time when…_

“Fuck. Shit.” Hawke usually resorted to swearing when she was presented with something that she didn’t particularly want to think about at the moment. She looked down at the ground, which was ethereal and hazy, and then looked up again to see ghostlike figures floating around her. Spirits. Of course, this was the Fade. Hawke was dreaming, and hers were particularly vivid, just like the dreams of all mages.

One of the spirits paused in front of her and looked right at her. It was tall and armored and wore a helmet, so Hawke couldn’t see its face. “Do you know what I am?” it asked.

“…a spirit?” That was the obvious answer, wasn’t it?

“I am a Spirit of Justice,” said the spirit. “A concept which has been on your mind lately, it would seem.”

“Damn spirits,” Hawke muttered. “Damn Fade.” She looked up at it. "Are you... the same Justice that..."

"No," said the spirit. "But I am similar enough. Do you know what it is like? To be them?”

“Them?”

“Anders and Justice.”

Hawke didn’t know. “Together? No. I mean, does anyone? Anyone who isn’t… possessed?” She wasn’t sure if that was the right word, but she couldn’t think of any alternatives at the moment.

The spirit held out its hand to her, and Hawke was wary, but ultimately if Hawke was anything she was utterly reckless, so she took it.

That’s when the spirit rushed into her brain and filled it completely, like sand being poured into a bottle of pebbles, like water flowing into a sudden opening. She felt as though her eyes had been opened to a million new colors and new emotions and new memories and I am Hawke I am Justice I am Hawke I am Justice I am Here, a spirit in the Fade I am talking to Hawke and showing her something, something she needs to See, something she needs to Understand but I am Hawke and why is it doing this why is it in my dreams and it’s because you need to See I need to see I need to—

 _Why? Why him?_ That was the wind talking to her again.

“He is Right,” she said, and she couldn’t tell if it was herself or the spirit talking. She heard both in the voice that came from her mouth, and she couldn’t tell who was answering the question. She thought that if she were to look into a mirror then she would be able to see the entire Fade, the entire universe in her eyes. “And he Needs me.”

And now there was something pushing the back of her mind, a Thought that was greater than all other Thoughts, a thread she could pick out as being larger than the other threads of her consciousness. And it said— but not with words— _now you See._

The spirit rushed out of her, then, and Hawke felt very empty and very hollow, as though she had been instantly drained of all the thoughts in the universe. The Spirit of Justice was standing in front of her and there were other spirits drifting all around.

 _You can’t keep him from the world, Hawke_ , said the wind. _The world needs him._

“I know,” said Hawke aloud. “But I can… I can keep the world from him.”

_Can you? Can you really? The world hates him just as much as it needs him. He is More. Just as the spirit showed you. And the world will never stop chasing someone who is More._

“I… I know that,” said Hawke.

“She is very Compassionate,” said one spirit, as if musing to itself.

“And Valorous,” said another.

The Spirit of Justice nodded. “She will do,” it said.

Hawke woke up.

  


“Oh it’s awful, absolutely awful!”

It was the Orlesian man in Hightown whom Aveline had tipped Hawke off to who was currently doing the wailing, and Hawke, Isabela, and Varric were all rather unimpressed as they stared at him. “So,” said Hawke finally. “You want me to head out there and… what? Find out why your employees aren’t working?”

“I _know_ why they aren’t working,” the Orlesian— who had introduced himself as Hubert— huffed. “It’s because they’re Fereldans. Lazy Maker-damned doglords.”

Hawke bit back her tongue. Oh, she could punch him, and it would be very satisfying, but it also wouldn’t get her very much money. “Charming,” she said through gritted teeth.

Isabela, however, was offended on her friend’s behalf. “Mmm, you know, if you aren’t going to say anything intelligent, we’re just going to go find other people to offer us work,” she said.

“No! No no!” Hubert shook his hands out in front of him. “Did I offend? I am truly sorry! What I need is for someone to go see if anything is wrong with the mine. And to report back to me if there _is_ something wrong. Please. It’s already been a day since I heard anything. Every day that the mine is not in operation is another day that I am out money.”

“So where is this place?” Hawke asked.

“It’s just outside the city— I can give you a map,” said Hubert. “It’s called the Bone Pit.”

Hawke raised her eyebrows. “So let me get this straight. You’re sending workers to a place literally called ‘The Bone Pit’ and you’re wondering why they aren’t reporting for work?”

“I don’t know, I can think of several young men who would be all about a bone pit,” said Isabela casually.

“Yeah… I can too,” said Varric.

“Ha ha,” said Hawke flatly as she looked over at them, and when she looked back at Hubert he looked skeptical. “Don’t worry,” said Hawke quickly. “We’re professionals.”

“Definitely professionals,” said Isabela.

“Recommended by four out of five Hightown nobles,” Varric added. “We don’t talk about the fifth.”

“He’s dead,” said Isabela in an exaggerated whisper.

“…I…” Hubert sputtered.

“Don’t worry, I’m on it,” Hawke cut in. “I’ll be back to you before this evening.” She turned and began to walk away, with Hawke and Varric on her heels.

“So,” said Isabela nonchalantly. “Headed to Darktown first, I presume?”

“Darktown?” Hawke managed to catch herself before she stumbled over the word. “Why would I do that?”

“To pick up Anders,” said Isabela, as though this was the most obvious response in the world.

“I… mean, he is a healer. It would be nice to have a healer around… in case there _is_ something at this Bone Pit.” Hawke shrugged.

“And that, Rivaini, is why I didn’t take that bet of yours,” said Varric.

“You’re no fun,” Isabela told him.

Hawke lifted up a hand and made a rude gesture in one fluid move without turning around.

  


When she saw Anders a few moments later she thought the universe was in his eyes.

It brought bits and pieces of the dream back— what parts of it she could remember, anyway. Something about wind and spirits. Had Anders been involved? She thought maybe Anders had been in the dream, somehow. But regardless of if he was or not, he was here now, and he was smiling and in a good mood and quickly agreed to accompany Hawke and the others. “So,” he said, as they set off. “‘Bone Pit’ is quite a name for a place.”

“It has a ring to it, doesn’t it?” said Hawke.

Isabela spoke up. “You know, Anders…”

“Alright,” Hawke interrupted her. “Get all the jokes out of your system now.”

“How do you know I was going to make a joke?” Isabela said. “I was just going to give our mage friend here some advice.”

“And does it have to do with the words ‘bone’ or ‘pit’?” Hawke was suspicious.

“Of course not,” said Isabela. “It does have to do with the word ‘ring’, however. So, Anders, as I was saying, if you’re looking for—”

“Whoa, okay, I think I prefer the bone pit jokes,” Hawke was mortified, suddenly. She looked over at Anders apologetically, but he just smiled at her.

_The universe isn’t just in his eyes, it’s also in his smile._

It was going to be okay.

  


The Bone Pit mine was a hellscape. No wonder no one wanted anything to do with it.

The entire area was desolate and decrepit, and nothing grew nearby— not even grass or shrubs.

It was also very quiet, and Hawke couldn’t tell whether or not that was a good sign. No birds sang, and no small creatures ran underfoot.

She decided that was probably a bad sign.

“I don’t think anybody’s home,” said Varric. He was examining the entrance to the mine, which had caved in.

“Probably not,” Hawke agreed. “Nobody good, at least.” She couldn’t shake the feeling that _something_ had chased all the life away.

Anders held two fingers up to his forehead and the result was a telekinetic blast that cleared away most of the rubble that was blocking the entryway. Hawke approached it and peered inside. It was silent and the air inside was stale and still.

“Well,” she said at last. “Everybody in.”

The four of them pressed inside the mine. Hawke was in front, partially because she absolutely was that fearless and partially because by this point she was used to being in charge. The interior of the mine was much like the exterior: almost completely lifeless. She did see a shiny black beetle crawling along the wall, which she felt was an encouraging sign. At least not _everything_ was dead.

“Maybe whatever scared everything off is gone by now,” said Varric. “Knowing our luck, it’s not though, is it?”

“Probably not,” said Hawke. They headed down one of the mine shafts for a few minutes before Hawke suddenly halted. She was hit by the wafting smell of something horrid, and she wrinkled her nose. “Do you smell that?”

The others stopped. “It smells like shit,” said Isabela. “Like, literal shit.”

“And I think it’s right over here,” said Varric. He was pointing at a large pile of dung in the corner. Beetles and flies crawled across it. That explained where the one Hawke had seen had come from.

“That’s, uh… a lot of shit,” said Hawke.

“I think it came from something very big,” said Varric.

“How big?” Asked Isabela.

“ _Dragon big!_ ” Anders exclaimed suddenly, and he spun around, his staff at hand, as two dragonlings scampered out of a side passage and leaped at them.

Hawke and the others were on them on an instant, and dragonlings are fierce but ultimately small and easily beaten, so all it took were a few well timed spells, stabs, and bolts to have them on the ground in a bloodied mess. Hawke pushed her staff into the dirt and leaned on it. “Where there are dragonlings there are dragons,” she said. “And that, I think, would explain the lack of employees.”

“If I were this Hubert guy I’d just write the whole thing off right now,” said Varric. “In fact, I say we turn around and tell him to do just that.”

“Oh, come on, Varric!” Hawke stepped over the dragonling corpses and pushed further into the mine. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“You know,” said Isabela as she followed, “Someday I’m going to die. And the cause of death is going to be one word, and that word is going to be ‘Hawke’.”

“Damn right,” said Hawke. She was already deeper into the mine than the others, examining the walls. There were scratches along them, here and there, and soot, which was a telltale sign of dragons and their fire breath.

She had paused and was taking stock of all of this when Anders came up behind her. “Be careful,” he said softly. Hawke looked over at him; his amber eyes were filled with worry. “Dragons don’t mess around.”

“We’ll leave if there is actually a high dragon,” said Hawke. She turned and looked at him and tried to smile reassuringly. “Right now I want to see if there is anything here other than, you know. The babies. That way we have a more thorough report for our dear Orlesian friend.”

Anders still appeared doubtful, but he gave in. “I just don’t want to see you hurt,” he said, and his words melted Hawke’s heart even moreso than they usually did. She sort of hated herself for it, a tiny bit. _What happened to Hawke the badass?_ She thought to herself. Isabela had once told her she was a softie deep down inside. Maybe it was true. Maybe there never really was a badass— just a Hawke who only wished she was a badass.

Well. There would be time for introspection later. When her thoughts weren’t being interrupted by…

…screaming?

They turned just in time to see a frantic man running up to them from one of the mazelike mine’s many tunnels. He came to a skidding halt when he saw Hawke and the others, his eyes wide. “D— dragon!” he managed to blurt out in a thick Fereldan accent once he got over his initial surprise at seeing them. “Back there! It’s already killed a few of us— I— Maker’s balls, what are you even doing here? Coming here is having a death wish!”

“Whoa,” said Hawke. “It’s alright. We’re just here to check on things.”

“Are you hurt?” Anders said now.

“What? No, it didn’t get me. But it might, if I don’t start fucking running again.”

“Get to safety, then,” said Hawke. “We killed everything by the entrance.”

“You did? Maker bless you. And Maker bless Ferelden. Fuck this shithole.” And he took off running towards the exit.

“Well,” said Isabela once he was gone. “That charming countryman of yours has confirmed that something big is here. I’d suggest we leave.”

“There might be other workers here,” said Hawke. “Did you hear him? ‘Already killed a few of us’.”

“And it might kill us, too,” said Varric.

“We should at least see if it’s something we can handle,” said Hawke firmly. She turned to Anders, silently asking for his opinion. She was well aware of the fact that it was currently two against one, and if it became three against one…

“I… think Hawke is right,” said Anders. “There might be other survivors. If it’s possible we could help them, we should stay.”

“Why is it always mages with a death wish?” Varric mumbled wryly.

“Most of us die an early death anyway,” Anders shrugged. Hawke couldn’t tell whether or not he was joking.

“Anyway,” said Hawke. “My vote counts as two because I’m the leader, so come on.”

“Wait, who decided that?” Isabela asked as they continued on.

“I did,” replied Hawke. “Because I’m the leader.”

They headed down the tunnel the man had come running from, weapons at the ready. Eventually the tunnel opened up into a clearing, and it was here that Hawke’s intuition about possible survivors was proven woefully correct: a small group of workers sat huddled in a corner, as a young dragon— older than a dragonling, but far from fully grown— towered over them. The workers had apparently been keeping the creature at bay as best they could with old rusty daggers, but it was clear that they would not hold out much longer.

Hawke didn’t bother to think. “Hey!” she yelled out at the dragon.

The dragon turned.

“Really, Hawke?” was all Varric asked as the dragon charged at them.

Hawke didn’t have time to reply. She cast a lighting bolt at the dragon’s head at the same time that Anders hurled a bolt of icy frost, and soon all four of them were on top of it. Hawke paused, mid-battle, to look over at the huddled group of workers. “Run out the front!” she screamed. “Hurry!”

The workers nodded frantically and made for the exit while Hawke and the others kept the dragon occupied. But that turned out to be more difficult than expected and the dragon turned right as the last worker was leaving the clearing and side-swiped him with sharp, deadly claws. The man was sent flying roughly into a wall with a thud, and Hawke’s first thought was that he was dead, poor man, but she didn’t dwell on it— she _couldn’t_ dwell on it— and kept her focus on the dragon. The creature was tough to kill but far from invincible, and eventually it fell and Hawke shoved the pointed end of her staff into its skull just to make sure.

The fight had hardly finished when Anders leaped over the dragon’s body and headed for the prone man at the wall. Hawke was shortly right by his side, and the sight was grim. The man was, somehow, still alive— but only just. There was a great deal of blood everywhere and Anders was knee-deep in it, ripping cloth bandages from the pouch he always carried with him before immediately kneeling down and setting to work. Hawke didn’t think he was going to succeed. The man was too injured— too far gone.

Unless Anders was going to—

Would he? Here? In front of someone they didn’t know? Someone who might betray him to the templars?

Of course he would. He was Anders.

Hawke should never have wondered.

Anders called on all the energy he could muster to pull power from the Fade, his hands glowing a bright and brilliant white and blue, and then he channeled that energy into the man lying on the ground before him. Once, then twice, then three times, and by then his brow was slick from sweat and his breathing was labored and his face was twisted in concentration, but Hawke didn’t want to interrupt him and she just watched, watched as he worked his magic and put everything he had into saving someone he didn’t even know.

The fourth time he cast his spell was when Hawke saw flaming cracks of Justice through Anders’ skin. The spirit, it appeared, was propping him up now as he expended the very last of his energy and finally the man painfully sat himself up, and it was then and only then that the blue glow faded from Anders and he collapsed— into Hawke, who knelt down just in time to catch him. He was warm— almost hot— from all the energy he had been radiating just seconds before, but Hawke wrapped her arms around him and held him. “I’ve got you,” she said.

Anders mumbled out an incoherent reply.

“I…” The man looked down at himself, then up at Anders and Hawke, and then back down at himself. “You saved me,” he said in disbelief.

“Mmhmm,” said Anders. He was close enough to Hawke that his words reverberated from his chest into hers, and she cherished that. He had to take a breath and steady himself before he continued talking. “But you should still be careful. Rest for a few days. And drink a lot of water.”

“You’re one to talk,” Hawke murmured to him. Her mouth was very close to his ear, and this was a fact that she was well aware of. She wanted, suddenly, to reach up and smooth back the many strands of hair that had come loose during his ordeal, but she restrained herself.

Barely.

The man peered at Anders closely, and then his eyes widened. “You’re the healer from Darktown!” he gasped.

“The very same,” Anders chuckled.

“You… you’ve saved so many of us, serah. And now you’ve saved me. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Hawke spoke up before Anders could say anything. “Just don’t tell the templars,” she said.

“Of course. I would never.” The man seemed appalled by the very idea of it. “Healer, your secret is safe with us.”

“Thank you,” said Anders.

The man stood shakily and left, leaving Hawke holding Anders on the floor, and Isabela and Varric approached them. “Uh, maybe I’m imagining things, but I’m pretty sure you just raised that guy from the dead,” said Isabela.

“Almost.” Anders smiled weakly.

“Maker’s breath,” said Varric. “Remind me to take you with us everywhere we go from now on.”

“I’m pretty sure Hawke already guarantees that,” said Isabela.

Hawke wasn’t listening to their banter. She still had her arms wrapped firmly around Anders, and as far as she was concerned, she was going to keep them there as long as she needed to. “Are you alright?” she asked him.

“I’ll be fine,” said Anders. “I just need another minute.”

So Hawke held him as Varric and Isabela scoured the area for any other points of interest, and eventually Hawke couldn’t take it any longer and she lifted one hand and gently smoothed back his loose hair, tucking it behind his ear. Anders closed his eyes and sighed contentedly, but said nothing, and Hawke kept her fingers in those dirty blonde strands as long as she thought she could get away with before reluctantly letting go.

Then she was holding him again, and it was, Hawke thought, probably the highlight of her entire time spent in Kirkwall thus far. But the moment had to end eventually, and Anders stood rather shakily with Hawke’s help. “Thank you,” he said to her once he was standing.

“Can you walk?” Hawke asked him.

Anders nodded. “Yes. But if you could walk with me back to my clinic, I would appreciate it.”

He may as well have asked her if she wanted ten free bouncing mabari puppies. “Of course,” she said, and it probably came out sounding much too eager, but she didn’t even care.

Varric and Isabela approached. “Yeah,” said Varric, “I think we’ve cleared the place out. There were some eggs in the corner but they’ve all hatched.”

Hawke nodded. “Hubert will be pleased to hear it, I’m sure,” she said. “But he can wait to hear it until tomorrow,” she added, as they started off.

By the time they made it back to Kirkwall it was already evening. Hawke saw Isabela and Varric off at the Hanged Man, and then she and Anders turned and began to head through Lowtown’s winding streets towards Darktown. She kept a careful eye on Anders; he seemed to be doing alright, but she knew from her own experience as a mage that he was still winded and badly needed rest. Once they got back to his clinic, she decided, she was going to insist on feeding him and putting him to bed. And maybe he would let her stay a while, to watch over him, and…

Hawke saw something out of the corner of her eye. She spun around; bandits were coming out of the shadows. _Maker’s fucking blood._ She hadn’t been paying attention and she’d walked them right into a dark side street without taking precautions.

“Mmm, what’ve we got here?” One bandit, who appeared to be the leader, brandished a long blade. “Two apostate mages, eh? I’m sure the templars will pay a pretty penny for ridding the world of the two of you.”

Hawke darted her eyes to Anders, who was standing beside her. He had his staff at the ready, but she had no idea how much mana he had after the earlier incident or even what condition he was in to fight.

So she was going to assume it was all of the bandits verses her.

_Bring it._

The bandits lunged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was actually kind of proud of this chapter and I hope you all enjoyed it!
> 
> On the next episode of Renegades: Hawke gets very, VERY violent. :D


	15. And Your Voice Is A Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke smuggles a Qunari out of Kirkwall, kills a lot of people, and is a wreck. More so than usual, I mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for a lot of graphic violence, various descriptions of people dying, and a lot of blood and other exciting bodily fluids like vomit.

The first time Hawke killed someone was a couple of months after her father died.

A robber had sneaked into their house in the middle of the night. The man was local, knew that Malcolm had died, and assumed that the widow and her children wouldn’t be able to fend him off as he took whatever he wanted.

He wasn’t banking on Hawke, who heard him and carefully made her way to the kitchen, and the man was dead from a surprise magical onslaught in a matter of seconds.

Afterwards, Hawke had bashed his head into the floor just to make sure.

She felt no regret. He was a threat to her family, _her people_ , so no, killing him was not something she felt guilty about.

The others woke when they heard the noise, of course, and gasped at the sight, but Hawke just shrugged as she dragged the man’s body out the front door and threw it in a ditch. She would burn it the next day, but first she went right back to bed and slept soundly.

No one else in Lothering messed with them after that. There were a few out-of-towners she’d run into on the roads, sometimes, who found her and her family an easy target for looting and were quickly proven wrong.

Nobody messed with Hawke or her people. Ever.

And Anders?

He was hers.

So the first bandit to leap at her died almost instantly, roasted alive so quickly that he didn’t have time to scream or otherwise react before he hit the ground lifeless.

She spun around on the second, shoving the pointed end of her staff into his heart and topping it off with a spell that sucked any of the remaining life force out of him.

The third made the dire, _dire_ mistake of going after Anders. As Hawke had expected, Anders wasn’t exactly at his best, and he was just a moment to slow as he attempted to parry the bandit’s strike with his staff and the sword grazed his arm. He cried out in pain and shock, but before anything else could happen the bandit was on the ground, Hawke’s dagger at his throat, a bead of blood running across the length of the knife. His eyes were wide as he gasped at her, unable to talk, and by this point the remaining bandits had pulled back and were looking at each other nervously. They had been expecting two amateur apostates, not… _Hawke_. Not this woman with murder in her eyes and blood on her teeth. 

The man on the ground might have pleaded for his life, had Hawke given him that chance. But she didn’t. Oh, she might have, if he had gone after her. She would’ve killed him anyway, but she would’ve given him a chance to talk, at least, because she was an asshole and she wouldn’t blame people too much for wanting her dead and she would have been curious to at least hear his specific reason for it.

But he hadn’t gone after her. He had gone after something Pure and Good and _Not His_ and he didn’t deserve to talk. So Hawke, hovering just above him, was the last thing he saw before she slit his throat and left him for dead, his hot blood pooling on the ground.

Hawke looked up at the others, silently warning them, daring them to make a move. Finally the leader of the gang backed down. “Fuck! Whatever!” he exclaimed. “Fuck this!”

And they all bailed, leaving three dead in their wake, and Hawke might have considered going after them except she had something more important to attend to.

She climbed off the corpse of the man she had just killed and headed to Anders’ side. He was nursing his arm, which was bleeding, and if he had any fear of Hawke at all after what she had just done, he didn’t show it. Instead he looked at her with concern. “Hawke,” he said. “Are you—”

Of course he was asking if _she_ was okay. She took his arm in her hands. “How bad is it?”

Anders winced. “Not bad,” he said. “There are poultices and bandages in my pouch. Can you—”

Hawke didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. She opened the pouch on his belt and pulled out everything she needed, then motioned for him to sit down. He did, and she sat with him. “How is your mana?” she asked as she rolled up the sleeve on his coat and wiped the blood away as best as she could with a cloth. “Can you heal yourself yet?” She thought she knew what the answer was, already, but she wanted to be sure.

Anders shook his head. “Not yet.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hawke, as she wrapped his arm up with some elfroot leaves and tied them in place with bandages. “I don’t know any healing spells. I’m just good at killing people. As you… probably saw.” She grinned crookedly.

Anders smiled back. “I can teach you sometime,” he said. “The basic spells aren’t that difficult to pull off, and they’re pretty useful.”

“You do realize that just saw me murder three guys and you’re inviting me over,” Hawke teased.

“What can I say? I like people who I know can kick my ass.”

Hawke was finalizing the wrappings when she heard footsteps, and she looked up to see a lone woman approaching. The woman was in Chantry robes and had short blonde hair and cold eyes. Hawke didn’t like her, and immediately reached for her staff.

“Serah Hawke,” said the woman as she towered above them. “And…” she looked over at Anders and raised an eyebrow. “A friend.”

“So you know my name, and I’ve never seen you before,” said Hawke. She was still crouched on the ground, and by this point was hovering protectively in front of Anders. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

The woman chuckled. “Many people know of you, Hawke. The lost Amell, back and having claimed her rightful estate. The fact that you are a mage makes it all the more fascinating.” 

_Shit_. “And you’re here to, what? Drag me to the templars?”

“I would never dream of it,” said the woman. Her voice was smooth, too smooth. “In fact, I have come to you looking for help. It’s for a cause I believe you will be most sympathetic to.”

“I doubt it, if it has to do with the Chantry.” Hawke spat back.

“Stand up and hear me out, at least,” said the woman. “Then you can judge. I won’t force you to do anything. My name is Sister Petrice, by the way.”

Hawke didn’t like any of this. It was all coming too close off the back a bandit ambush. “Are you going to tell me what those bandits were about?” She asked as she carefully stood, still clutching her staff.

Petrice sighed. “If you must know, they were tracking me. I was tracking you. When they realized this, they decided you were a better target.”

“And you, what? Just stood and waited to see who the winner was?”

“And what would I do?” Petrice was almost rolling her eyes. “Chant them to death? Don’t be absurd. But I assure you, they had nothing to do with me. And frankly, your victory over them proves that you are the right person for this job. Yes, it is a job, and you will be paid.”

Hawke looked over at Anders, who was standing beside her. He, too, had his staff out and ready, despite the fact that he was clearly still in no condition to fight. He was ragged and bloodied and his hair was coming loose from its tie. She needed money, and she was willing to hear out Petrice and see if she could provide a good enough argument to work for her… but it wouldn’t be fair to bring Anders along to whatever it was when he desperately needed rest.

“Anders,” she said. “I don’t want you headed back to Darktown alone, but… can you make it back to the Hanged Man?”

“I’m not leaving you,” said Anders.

“Anders,” Hawke said, her voice softer and lower. “I don’t know what this person wants— it could be dangerous. I don’t want—”

“I will not leave you,” said Anders, and this voice was stronger and there was an otherworldly edge to it. Justice.

“Two against one?” Hawke smirked. “Wouldn’t you find that unjust?”

Anders’ smiled and his voice was back to normal as he said, “Not if it gives me a chance to remain with you.”

Hawke didn’t know whether he was saying this because she was his friend or because she might have been something more, but either way his words made her heart swell. She had to admit that she hadn’t actually wanted him to leave. She felt emboldened when he was around— able to things she wouldn’t normally be able to do.

She looked over at Petrice, who was looking distinctly annoyed. “Well?” Petrice asked.

“Tell me about this job,” said Hawke.

Petrice nodded. “Follow me. There is something you need to see.”

She led them to a small warehouse. Both Hawke and Anders were wary about going inside, but Petrice promised them up and down that nothing would happen and she allowed them to go in first and brandish their staves on the way in.

In the warehouse was a templar.

“A trap!” Hawke hissed, and behind her Anders’ eyes flared blue and he crackled with lightning, and Hawke prepared a quick fireball.

But the templar held up her hands. “Wait,” she said. “I am not here for you.”

Justice was fully awake, now, and his words were thunder that shook the walls of the tiny building. “If not for us, then whom?”

The templar faltered upon seeing one of the mages in front of her lit up like a shooting star, and now Petrice stepped in. “She is here for my safety. If you will both stand down—” she gave Anders a pointed glance— “I will show you why.”

“Fucking… you could have warned us that there was a fucking templar here,” Hawke’s teeth were gritted and she was refusing to take her eyes off the templar.

“You are right, and I apologize. I am not used to dealing with people who see templars as a… bad thing,” said Petrice.

“Lovely,” Hawke deadpanned. She didn’t like the tone of Petrice’s voice, and personally she wouldn’t have objected to killing both the templar _and_ Petrice right now. Aveline would give her shit for it, but Aveline was always giving her shit. No, killing them would be very satisfying.

But she was worried about Anders. Justice may have been propping him up, it was true, but she still didn’t know how much he could take. She had fought templars before, but not without considerable backup. For all she knew it would all end terribly for her and then Anders would be alone and vulnerable. No, she’d have to stand down, as unhappy as that made her. “Anders… Justice,” she said, and put a hand on his shoulder. Immediately the glow faded from his eyes and skin, as though she had flipped a switch.

Anders, although back to his original self, was sullen. “Here for your _safety_?” His tone was sardonic as he addressed Petrice. “Why? What else have you got here? Another poor apostate off the streets? Are we truly so terrifying?”

“I’m not doing a job for the fucking templars,” Hawke added. Beside her, Anders was alight with conviction, seemingly glowing despite the blood soaked dressing on his arm and the muddied green coat and the dirty hair falling in front of his face. She didn’t know if she had ever seen someone standing so tall.

“You’re not doing a job for the templars,” Petrice sighed. “You’re doing a job for me. Unless you’d rather not help a fellow mage.”

“What does the Chantry know about helping mages?” Anders was bristling.

Petrice didn’t respond, and instead beckoned them into another room. Warily they followed— and that’s when Hawke saw the Qunari.

Hawke had seen a Qunari before. There was one in a cage outside Lothering shortly before the Blight hit. She’d tried to talk to him once, out of curiosity, but he told her “If you are trying to befriend me, you are wasting your time. Now go away.” He refused to say anything else after that, so she left him alone.

This particular Qunari was much like the other one in build. He was bulky and almost as tall as the building itself, with arms that looked like they could rip any human in half with little effort. That, however, was where any similarities ended. This Qunari was bound and chained and his mouth had been sewn shut, and he wore a thick brass mask over much of his face. Hawke faltered upon seeing him, because his appearance was gruesome and horrifying and the sense of power that bubbled underneath the chains was very, very real.

Anders, too, had his mouth agape. “He’s a mage?” he managed to ask finally.

“Yes,” said Petrice. “This is how the Qunari treat their mages. The Chantry doesn’t seem too bad now, does it?”

Hawke and Anders continued to gape, but said nothing.

“I call him Ketojan,” said Petrice. “And I believe he wishes for freedom. That is why I require your aid. You know there are Qunari in the city, yes? They’ve sequestered themselves by the docks. They might do terrible things to this mage, if they were to find him. I’m asking you to smuggle him outside the city. From there, hopefully he can find his fellow deserters— they call themselves Tal-Vashoth— and join them. I am asking you to grant him his freedom.”

That was the sort of thing Hawke would normally be very happy to do, if a sister of the Chantry wasn’t the one telling her to do it. “What’s the catch?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

Petrice tsked her. “Must you be so cynical? Perhaps I merely wish to help an oppressed individual. That is what Andraste would want, isn’t it?”

Hawke looked over at Anders. He was still staring at Ketojan in horror. “I’d heard rumors about Qunari mages,” he said. “I didn’t know if they were true. This is…” he shook his head and looked at Hawke, his voice lowering. “If we can help him, we have to.”

“I know,” said Hawke. Her voice, too, was low. “But this all smells very suspicious.”

“It does,” Anders agreed. “And I don’t like working for the Chantry. But the alternative would be to leave him, and Justice and I… we can’t do that. We stand for freedom for every mage. Even when the odds are stacked against us.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Hawke asked. “Your arm… your mana.”

“I won’t lie,” said Petrice from behind them, who had overheard them talking. “It could be a dangerous job.”

Anders was insistent. “This is what I am meant to do,” he said, and Hawke realized that he was both Anders and Justice, in that moment. And in every moment, perhaps. _You can’t keep him from the world, Hawke. The world needs him._

She was going to face the world with him, of course.

She turned to Petrice. “So how exactly are we going to smuggle this… lovely fellow here through the streets of Kirkwall?”

Anders turned to look at Hawke and his eyes were soft with gratitude and _Andraste’s great flaming sword_ Hawke had to look away before she melted entirely.

Fortunately, Petrice was talking again. “There is a trapdoor behind him,” she said. “It will take you directly into the sewers. From there, you can make your way outside the city. Once you succeed, you can return here for payment and the Chantry’s gratitude.”

“And he’s not going to attack us the second we set off?”

“He has made no move against us so far,” said Petrice. “I believe he desires freedom. He has every reason to cooperate with you.”

Hawke couldn’t shake the feeling that Petrice had an ulterior motive, but she didn’t know if it was possible for a bound Qunari to have one, and he deserved his freedom, at least. “Alright,” she said. She looked over at the Qunari. “Ketojan?”

Ketojan made a gurgling noise.

She looked at Anders. “Are you ready?”

Anders nodded. “Let’s not keep him like this any longer than we have to.”

The templar moved forwards toward the trapdoor, but Hawke shot her a warning glare and she immediately backed off. “We have it from here,” she said icily. “Thank you.”

So the templar and Petrice watched as Hawke opened the trapdoor herself and examined it. There was nothing suspicious about it; sure enough, there was a ladder that led down into the dark sewers. Anders climbed down first, which Hawke didn’t like, but the alternative was leaving him alone up here with a templar, so she let him do it. Next, Hawke motioned to Ketojan and he obediently jumped down himself. That left just Hawke, and the templar and Petrice hadn’t moved, so she climbed down into the darkness and shut the door.

Anders had lit the top of his staff to create a torch of sorts and Hawke approached him. “Anyone else down here?” she asked.

Anders shook his head. “So far, so good. Petrice seems to be telling the truth, though I can’t fathom why.”

“I’m sure we’ll find out eventually,” said Hawke, “And I’m sure we won’t like it.” She wrinkled her nose. “Whew, sure is a sewer, isn’t it?”

“I’m used to it,” Anders quipped with that peculiar tone of voice he used when he was being particularly self-deprecating for laughs. It was as endearing as it was sympathy-inducing, and Hawke knew he knew it.

They began their trudge through the muck and dirt, and Ketojan followed dutifully behind. Hawke made a few token attempts at communication— “So how did you end up in Kirkwall?” “Can’t say anything, huh?”— and was met either with silence or with gurgling sounds, so eventually she stopped trying and went back to focusing on Anders. He had put on a brave face, but it was clear that he was in dire need of rest. He was talking at length about Qunari mages, and his spirit was in it and Hawke loved him for it, but she also fretted for him. What if Ketojan suddenly turned on them? What if they weren’t alone here, in the dark? What if— as she was still deeply suspecting— this was all some sort of trap? There was only so much Hawke could do alone when Anders was still recuperating. At least he seemed to be in slightly better shape than he had been earlier. Perhaps he had regained some more of his mana, and perhaps Justice had been rejuvenated by being able to help fulfill a function.

Fortunately, the tunnels seemed to be mostly empty. A few obnoxiously large spiders leaped out at them, at one point, but these were easily dispatched by the two of them. Hawke kept a close watch on Anders during this fight to assess how he was doing. He was able to use some magic, which was a good sign, although Hawke noted he was being conservative with it. That he could use any magic at all in a fight was encouraging, nonetheless.

After the fight, Anders looked up at Hawke and tilted his head. “Have I got something in my teeth?” he asked.

“What?” Hawke had no idea what he was talking about.

Anders laughed. “You keep looking over at me.”

 _Oh, right._ “I just want to be sure you’re doing okay,” said Hawke. “I mean, ideally you should be in bed getting a lot of rest. Not, you know— in the sewer, fighting spiders and dragging a Qunari to freedom.”

“What am I for, if not dragging things to freedom?” Anders’ voice was lighthearted but Hawke could hear the truth in his words anyway. _He believes it._

_Because it’s true._

“So,” said Hawke. “How do I help you with that?”

“You’re helping now, aren’t you?” Anders smiled. “And I appreciate it.”

Hawke didn’t have a chance to reply, though, because she heard a noise in the shadows to her left. She spun around, staff at the ready, but she was caught off guard and a thug was on top of her before she could cast a spell. She recovered quickly; releasing a blast of energy from her hand to send the man sprawling. But out of the corner of her eye she saw more thugs coming at Anders, and another from behind, and…

…and then every one of them was knocked back as though hit with an obscene force coming from just behind her. Hawke looked over. It was Ketojan.

She didn’t waste another moment. Now that she and Anders had the advantage, their spells made quick work of the bandits. Then she whirled on Ketojan, who was still in a fighting stance. “Alright,” she said. “They’re gone. We’re good.”

Ketojan gurgled something, but settled himself.

Hawke eyed him up and down. “So you can’t… stomp your feet twice for yes, or something?”

More gurgling noises.

“Well, anyway,” said Hawke. “Thanks.” She looked over at Anders. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” said Anders. He pointed off in the distance. “And I think we’re almost at the end of this tunnel. See that light?”

Hawke squinted in the direction Anders was pointing at. Sure enough, she could make out what seemed to be an exit and dim light from beyond, perhaps from a campfire. “Thank the Maker’s fucking ballsack,” she said. “This smell is going to kill me.”

They made it to the exit without any further interruptions, and emerged at a campsite with a large fire that was bright and hot against the dusky evening air. To Hawke’s surprise, there was a band of Qunari seated around it. They looked at Hawke and Anders, and they looked back, and for a moment Hawke wondered if a fight was going to break out. She hoped not, because she didn’t think she and Anders could take on a half dozen Qunari alone, so she forced herself to appear non-threatening. “Uh. Hello,” she said.

The Qunari didn’t respond, but finally one of them stood and walked over to them. He was huge and imposing and wore a metal helmet, and he pointed at Ketojan. “Saarebas!” he said.

“Excuse me?” Hawke asked.

“That one with you is Saarebas,” said the Qunari leader. “He is without his Avaarad, who was killed by you or perhaps by your friends. As such, he is unable to fulfill his role in the Qun. Hand him to us so that he may do so.”

All the strange words were going over Hawke’s head, but she understood the bit about _killing_ , at least. “Wait, we didn’t kill anyone. Except a couple of thugs on the way in. But they, uh, were definitely not Qunari.”

The Qunari appeared confused. “You mean you did not kill his Karataam?”

“…no?” Hawke had no idea what a Karataam was but it sounded like a Qunari thing. “This guy is, like, the second Qunari I’ve ever seen. In my entire life.”

“I see. There were bodies that led to this cave, so we assumed any Bas who appeared would be the ones who killed them.”

“It was a fucking setup,” Anders bristled beside Hawke. “Fucking Chantry.” 

The Qunari ignored him and was talking again. “But even if it was not you who killed them, our demand remains. You will give the Saarebas to us, so he can take his proper place in the Qun.”

“Ah,” said Hawke. “And uh, forgive me for asking, but what is his proper place in the Qun?”

“He is Saarebas. He is dangerous and corrupt. His role is to submit to the Qun and be restrained. By doing so, he will have achieved mastery over that part of himself which cannot be controlled."

“You mean because he is a mage?” Hawke asked. “That is what ‘saarebas’ means?”

“If that is your word for it, then yes.”

“And what if that’s not what he wants?”

“It is what he wants.”

“How do you know? I mean,” Hawke snorted, “You’ve kind of sewn his mouth shut.”

The Qunari looked over at Ketojan. “Saarebas! Show that you submit yourself to the Qun.”

And, wordlessly, Ketojan knelt down and bowed his head.

The Qunari leader returned his gaze to Hawke. “He knows his place in the Qun. By giving him to us, you are helping him to fulfill his purpose.”

“I…” Hawke was actually speechless, which was a phenomenon that she did not experience often. Ketojan did not actually _want_ his freedom. He _wanted_ to be prisoner to his own people. It was all so terribly unfathomable— such a thoroughly alien concept— that Hawke couldn’t even begin to process it.

Fortunately for her, Anders had a lot to say. “You mean you’ve brainwashed him into believing that he is a monster just because he is different. Well, isn’t that just quaint! And here I thought it was only Andrastrians who did that. I’m so glad to see that bigotry and exploitation is universal.”

“You will mind your tongue, bas,” the Qunari leader pointed at him.

“Funny how that works, isn’t it?” Anders was bloodied and battered and crackling with energy and he took a step closer to the Qunari. “We bring up a point and we’re patted on the head and told to shut up. Like dogs. What kind of a fucking religion treats people like animals? A lot of them, apparently.”

Hawke could sense a fight brewing and at this point she didn’t even want to stop it from occurring. Oh, logically she probably should have wanted to. Logically, she didn’t think that she and Anders could take on this many Qunari.

But Hawke sure as _fuck_ wasn’t logical in the face of what she considered to be top level bullshit.

She brandished her staff, and upon seeing it the Qunari began yelling out “Bas saarebas!” and _yeah, you call me saarebas and see what happens, son_ , Hawke thought, and then a battle was on.

The resulting fight was messy and brutal and by all accounts, Hawke and Anders probably should not have survived. But as Hawke learned that day, two very angry mages and a virtue spirit will absolutely survive things that few others can.

Justice exploded onto the scene mere seconds after the brawl began, a rapturous song of light and fury, and his appearance startled the Qunari enough to allow him and Hawke both to gain a significant advantage. Two Qunari went down, followed quickly by a third. The fourth got a nasty hit in on Hawke before she retaliated with a burst of electricity in all directions. That Qunari fell but Hawke fell with him, and the result was a tussle on the ground that finally ended with Hawke shoving her knife into his eye.

She pulled herself up, blood in her hair and across her cheek, and sent a blast of flame at the remaining two Qunari who were both battling Anders and Justice. They fell, finally, and the frenetic energy that had been propping Hawke up all rushed out of her at once and she fell as well, and that’s when Justice became Anders again and he hurled himself down beside her, pouring the very last ounces of his strength and mana into a makeshift healing spell.

Then the two of them were lying on the ground, choking and gasping for breath, soaked in the blood of close to a dozen different people. Hawke figured that if anyone were to come across them just then she wouldn’t fault them at all for assuming they were dead.

When Hawke could finally bring herself to move again, it was because she could see a Qunari standing above her. She hadn’t killed them all…? No. Wait. This was Ketojan. He had been subdued by the other Qunari as soon as the fight had begun, and because of it he appeared extremely uncomfortable and unable to do much, but he managed to gurgle something at her.

Hawke painfully sat up. Her head was swimming and although Anders had successfully healed the worst of her, she was still far from in good shape. She was hit by a wave of nausea, suddenly, and she turned and retched. _Ah yes, nice romantic date with the cute healer, puking all over the place like that._ But when she was finished she felt a little better, and she looked back up at Ketojan and saw him looking over at something on the ground a little ways away. It was a rod of some sort. Some Qunari thing, apparently.

She looked over at Anders. He was half sitting up, supporting himself on shaking arms, but he, too, was looking at the rod that Ketojan was interested in. Hawke decided she didn’t want Anders moving, and managed to pull herself up to her feet and go get the rod before Anders got any ideas to get it himself.

Sparks flew from the device almost as soon as Hawke picked it up, and whatever it was, it was somehow magically bound to Ketojan, who let out a grunt and cracked open his mouth immediately after. “I am… free,” he said, with a growling voice that obviously had not been used in years. “And my karataam is no longer here. This is… wrong.”

“Wrong?” Hawke exclaimed.

Ketojan looked over at her. “You.” He then looked at Anders, who was still on the ground. “And you.” He looked back at Hawke. “You were acting out of conviction in your own beliefs. They are wrong, but you stood by them. I respect your actions and do not begrudge you for doing what you believe to be correct.”

“What _is_ correct,” said Anders. He pushed himself off the ground and stood tall and defiant. To Hawke, he looked very much like an eagle or falcon that had just survived a battle it should not have survived. He was all mud and flashing golden eyes and bloodied feathers. He staggered towards them, not taking his eyes off of Ketojan. “Submitting to this Qun is absolutely ridiculous. It does not care about you.”

“The Qun is not about caring,” Ketojan replied. “The Qun is about purpose. I wish to live by the Qun. And I do not know how that is possible without my Arvaarad.” He began to walk, then, towards the shore, and Hawke and Anders staggered after him.

“What are you talking about?” Hawke asked him. “The possibilities are endless now! You can do whatever you want.”

“But I cannot follow the Qun.”

“What about the Tal-Vashoth? They don’t follow the Qun. I don’t think.”

“They are not Qunari.”

“So… what?” Hawke asked him. “You’re going to wander off to…”

“To die.”

“What?” Anders choked out.

“So let me get this straight,” said Hawke. “We freed you so you could die.”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“I am outside my Karataam. I may be corrupted.”

“Are you serious?” Anders was shaking with disbelief. “Of all the ridiculous, spineless, mind-controlled, senseless piece of shit arguments I've ever heard!”

"What comfort has freedom brought you, mage?” Ketojan asked him. “You would have more if you submitted to the Qun."

Anders was bristling, but he said nothing and stopped walking as Ketojan walked out to the edge of the Waking Sea. Hawke continued to follow him, desperate. “So that’s it, huh? There’s nothing I can say to stop you?”

“I have made my choice.” Ketojan was calm as he stopped and looked at Hawke. “Remember this day.”

And he went up in flames.

Hawke shut her eyes and looked down.

When she opened them again a few minutes later, Ketojan was dead, and Hawke found it difficult to breathe.

She’d just wanted to help. That was all. She’d just wanted to help.

She looked back to where Anders had been standing a few moments before. He wasn’t there.

Hawke had a brief moment of panic, but it subsided when she spotted him a little ways off, standing at the edge of the sea and staring off past it. He was beaten and broken and bloody and tall, his thin, bedraggled figure striking against the twilight sky. Slowly, quietly, Hawke approached him. He said nothing, nor did he look at her, but she saw the pain in his eyes as he looked across the sea.

It was heartbreaking.

She looked down at his hand. It was caked in dirt and blood, but that didn’t diminish her sudden desire to take it and hold it and _be_ there, _be_ a comforting, solid presence.

But she didn’t do it, and she sighed and looked away.

For a few minutes all she heard was the sound of the water and the crackling campfire of the Qunari camp. Then Anders spoke, and it was little more than a whisper. “He’s dead because of me.”

“He’s dead because he was brainwashed,” Hawke said. “He’s dead because society told him he should be dead.”

Anders looked down, strands of muddy blond hair falling across his face. “I could’ve done something differently. I could’ve…”

Okay, no. Hawke wasn’t going to have this. “Anders, you did _everything_ right. You told him that his way of thinking was wrong. You tried to change his mind. And he didn’t believe you, but you know what? He had a choice. He could have been free if he’d wanted to be. He was able to make that choice because of us. Because of _you_.” She squinted across the sea. The water was calm. Too calm for what had occurred that night. She looked over at Anders, who still wasn’t looking at her. “We’re going to save others,” she said. “We’re going to teach them. We’re going to teach them that there is nothing wrong with being a mage. Okay?”

“You… think we can?” His voice was quiet, but genuine. “Do you truly think we can change the world? Is it… is it even worth trying?”

“Yes,” said Hawke. “And yes.” She wasn’t sure if she was convincing herself after what she’d just seen, but _damn_ if she wasn’t going to try her best to convince Anders.

And finally, finally he looked up at her. And she saw a terrified little boy in his eyes. A terrified, crying boy dragged away from his family by templars.

“Anders?” she asked him.

“Hawke…?” He lifted a hand, as though to reach out and touch her, see if she was real, but then he let out a hacking cough and doubled over and Hawke reached out to grab him and prop him up.

“Come on,” Hawke said. She had one arm around him tightly. “Let’s get the fuck out of this place. So, when was the last time you had a bath?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far the longest chapter I've written for this fic so far! There was a lot going on and I hope it wasn't too much all at once. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Next time on **Renegades** : Well, after all this Hurt, I think our poor mages need some Comfort, don't you?


	16. These Feathers They Won't Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gives Anders a bath and puts him to bed. No, seriously.

Hawke thought that the fact that she and Anders successfully managed to make the trek back to Kirkwall without incident, in their condition, was really kind of surprising.

They held each other entire time, which was ostensibly to prop each other up as they stumbled, injured, back into town, but Hawke definitely had an ulterior motive for it and she figured Anders probably knew that she did. She was fine with that.

She opted not to return to the warehouse where Petrice had told them to meet afterward. Her reasoning for this was twofold. First, she figured she had probably already bailed, since she apparently hadn’t expected Hawke and Anders to live anyway. Second, and more importantly, she was planning on killing her the next time she saw her, and she wanted to be in better condition for that.

It was late into the night, now, and the roads were dark and empty as Hawke bypassed Darktown and instead half-dragged Anders into Hightown. Once he noticed where they were, he looked up, confused. “Hawke? Where are we going?”

“My place,” said Hawke.

“Why?”

“Because you need a bath, and I don’t think you’ve got a tub at your clinic.”

“I have a place I go to bathe,” Anders retorted. “…sometimes.”

“Okay, well, this time you’re going to take a bath at my place, and we’re going to wash your coat, too. When was the last time you washed it?” She stuck her nose into his feathers and took a sniff. The act was gratuitous and thoroughly selfish, because underneath the blood and mud and she smelled _him_ , and it brought her thoughts back to that time she cried in his arms in his clinic. Thinking back on that now was a tiny bit embarrassing, but simply being in his arms, then, remained one of her fonder memories.

“I have friends in Darktown who wash my clothes sometimes too, thank you very much,” Anders replied.

“Oh, good, we’ll be giving them a break then.” They were at Hawke’s front door and she pushed it open.

The difference between her estate and the experience they’d just had was almost comical.

Inside it was warm and the fire was going and everything was quiet and still. Leandra was in her room, Shadow was curled up on the rug, and Bodahn Feddic— whom Hawke had hired to act as a butler and secretary— was sitting at the desk, reading a letter. He looked up. “Ah! Messere Hawke. I was wondering when you would get back. It looks like you may have had a spot of trouble when you were out, though. I hope everything went alright in the end. Oh, and who might your companion be?”

“This is Anders,” said Hawke, “And I’m going to give him a bath. Could you do be a huge favor and set one up?”

“Of course! I will have it ready in no time at all.” Bodahn headed off to the washroom, and Hawke walked Anders over to the desk and then maneuvered him around so he could sit on the chair.

Anders began to protest as soon as he was seated. “Hawke, you don’t have to do this.”

“You are absolutely right,” said Hawke. “I don’t have to. But I’m going to anyway, so.”

“But what about _you_?” Anders pressed. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” said Hawke. There were some biscuits on the desk, and she took one and munched on it. Then she took another and offered it to Anders. “Hungry?”

“A little,” Anders conceded, and he took it and nibbled on it.

They ate in silence and a few moments later Bodahn appeared. “I’ve got the bath set up,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready. The water’s nice and warm, too.”

So Hawke led Anders into the washroom. It was clean and plain. There was a copper tub in the middle of it, and a small stove in the corner which was used to heat water. Anders, though, was impressed. “I… don’t know when I last had a bath with warm water,” he admitted.

“Then take your time with this one,” Hawke said. She reached to try to unfasten the buckles on his coat. “I still don’t understand this contraption you wear.”

“Hawke…”

“You’ve got something on _underneath_ the coat, right? I mean, I won’t mind if you don’t, but. I’m going to wash it while you bathe. Oh, you know what, I don’t think we have any towels in here. I’ll bring you some of those in a bit.” Hawke pulled Anders’ coat off of him. It was terribly heavy and she didn’t know if it was heavy to begin with or if it was just that sodden.

Anders, as it turned out, was wearing a light shirt and standard trousers underneath his coat. Hawke couldn’t even be disappointed because somehow the man managed to look terribly pretty regardless of what he was or was not wearing. He looked up at her now. “Hawke…”

“Nope. No protesting.” Hawke turned and headed to the door. “I’ll bring up some towels and some new clothes and put them outside the door, okay? Take as long as you need.”

“But what about you?”

“I live here, I can take a bath whenever. Now just relax.” Hawke tried her best to give him a reassuring smile and then she left the room and gently shut the door behind her.

She took Anders’ coat out back to a bucket, filled it with water and soap, and dunked it in. Then she scrubbed it on a washboard. The coat was filthy, and the water soon became a grimy, blackish sludge. Hawke actually ended up dumping the bucket out and refilling it with fresh water and washing it again. It took a full three washes before the coat managed to approach a status that was anywhere near clean, and by this point the water bucket was filled with feathers. “It looks like I murdered a dozen turkeys back here,” Hawke muttered to herself. Oddly, the coat itself still looked just as feathery as it did before. How? Hawke had no idea.

She hung the coat off a clothesline. It was so thick and heavy that it would have to dry overnight. In the meantime, she’d find her guest something else to wear.

She took one last bucket of clean water and used it to wash her own arms and face as best as she could, and then went back indoors and headed to the closet in the guest room. The fact that they even had a guest room and multiple closets was still something Hawke wasn’t used to, but she figured she could at least actually put them to good use. She pulled out a set of clean clothing and some towels, and then approached the washroom. She paused outside briefly to listen, but it seemed very quiet. He… _was_ actually taking a bath, right? Had he perhaps fallen asleep?

Hawke knocked on the door gently. “Anders?”

“Hawke?” The reply was quick. So he wasn’t asleep, then.

“I’ve brought you some towels and new clothes. I’ll leave them outside the door, alright? But no rush.”

“Thank you,” came the reply, and somehow it sounded awkward, and it concerned Hawke.

“Are you doing okay in there?” she asked.

“Y… yes,” Anders said from within. And then “You can come in, if you want.”

_…really?_

“Are you sure?” Hawke asked him.

“Yes. I… I would appreciate the company,” said Anders.

He certainly didn’t have to ask Hawke twice, and she opened the door and gently pushed her way inside the room.

Anders was, indeed, bathing. He had his back up against one side of the copper tub and his long legs were bent so his knees poked out of the water. He looked utterly exhausted and like he hadn’t actually done much cleaning, or much of anything other than sitting, really. Still, the fact that he was finally _resting_ was good enough for Hawke. He looked up at her as she entered and smiled. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” said Hawke. “How are you?”

“Mmm.” Anders closed his eyes. “You have no idea how nice it is to be in a warm bath.”

“Glad you’re enjoying it,” said Hawke. She set the clothing and towels down on the floor next to the tub, then pulled up a stool and sat herself down. _So, the incredibly cute man I’ve got a crush on is naked in a bathtub right next to me. Resting heart rate, I hardly knew ye._

“This isn’t weird, is it?” Anders asked. “Me asking you to be in here, I mean.”

“Nope,” said Hawke quickly. Maybe it was a little too quickly, but whatever. “It is absolutely not weird. We’re friends and I like spending time with you.”

“Heh.” Anders had his bare arms up on the sides of the tub and they were lean and lithe, with just enough muscle to carry a staff. Hawke saw, then, the makeshift bandage that she’d wrapped around his arm a few hours prior. It was blood-soaked and falling apart. Before she really knew what she was doing, she scooted the stool closer to the tub so she was sitting next to and a little bit behind him, took Anders’ arm, and gently unwound the dressing.

Anders looked over at her apologetically. “Oh… you don’t have to do that. I was going to. Eventually, I mean.”

“Okay, but I want to, so you’re going to have to deal with it.” Hawke smiled as she dropped the bandage and wilted elfroot to the floor. Then she examined his arm. The wound had formed a long, thick scab, and there was some excess blood dried around it. Hawke leaned down, took a bar of soap and a washcloth, dipped it in the water, and carefully began to scrub his arm, being sure not to nick the wound itself. “Does it still hurt?” she asked.

“It’s a bit tender, but it’s not so bad anymore,” Anders replied.

“It’ll form a scar, I think,” said Hawke.

“Probably. It’ll add to my collection. Make me look more rugged. The story for this one is more interesting than most, at least.”

“I dunno,” said Hawke, looking over at Anders’ chest. “I think ‘surviving a sword to the heart’ is pretty tough to beat.”

Anders laughed. “Yeah. I don’t know if that one can be topped, really.” The smile faded from his face, though, and he said “I suppose you haven’t seen the others yet.”

“The other scars, you mean?” Hawke asked.

“Mmhmm.” Anders looked down into the water. “They’re on my back.”

Hawke was curious, and Anders leaned forward a bit, wordlessly giving her permission to look herself. She did, and was mortified. Anders’ back was crisscrossed with a few dozen scars, and their shape and size made it very, _very_ clear _exactly_ how he had gotten them. Hawke opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“Yeah,” said Anders. “They aren’t… very glamorous, I’m afraid.”

“Was…” Hawke stumbled over her own words. “Was this… did… did they do this to you at the Circle?”

Anders nodded, his head still bowed. “Punishment for one of my escapes. They had templars watching me afterward. I wasn’t allowed to heal myself, or have anyone else heal me. They wanted the scars there, so every time I washed or scratched my back from then on, I would feel and remember.”

“That’s what they told you?”

“In those very words.”

Hawke reached out with a hand and gently ran it down Anders’ back, her fingertips running over the many ridges there as she did so. “How old were you?”

Anders shrugged. “I dunno. Sixteen, maybe. I wasn’t the youngest they did it to.”

Hawke ran her fingers down his back again. Softly, lovingly. She was too horrified to even think about what she was doing or why she was doing it, and the horror eventually gave way to anger. How dare anyone do this to him— to a child!— and for what, for wanting to go home to the family that he had been ripped away from? And Anders— _Anders_ of all people! Who was kind, who donated all his money and time to the poor, who put out milk for cats _for fuck’s sake?_

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to kill them,” she said.

Anders looked up. “What?”

“Everyone who has ever hurt you. If I find them, I will kill them.”

Anders chuckled. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “If anyone else said that, I don’t know if I’d take them seriously. But you? I take you seriously when you say that.” He tilted his head back to look up at Hawke and he smiled weakly.

Hawke smiled back and _what are you doing Hawke why are you putting your hands up on his shoulders_ but he wasn’t objecting, no, he wasn’t objecting, he was relaxing, he had been so tense but now he was melting into her touch and no, no she wasn’t going to stop, she wasn’t going to stop touching him because he was soft and he was warm and he leaned back in the tub and gently she kneaded his shoulders and said softly, “Is this alright?”

“Mmm.” Anders closed his eyes and let out a ragged breath that it sounded like he’d been holding all day. “You are much too good to me.”

Hawke couldn’t stop smiling as she massaged him, _Maker’s fucking breath you’re like a damn schoolgirl_ , and after a few minutes she was giddy enough that she was willing to try something just a tiny bit risky and she moved a hand onto his head, running her fingers through his hair.

Anders stiffened, suddenly— had this crossed a line, perhaps?— but she waited a moment for him to object, and he didn’t, and Hawke wanted this, and she thought maybe Anders wanted it too, so she whispered “It’s alright,” and she reached for the soap and lathered up her hands and then she began to wash his hair. And slowly Anders relaxed at her touch, letting out a sigh of contentment as he leaned back again and Hawke tugged the tie from his hair and then gently used her fingers to work out the many tangles. She paused after a moment and tilted her head. “Hmm. Do you think there’s any blond under all this mud?”

Anders laughed and it was a beautiful and genuine and light-hearted laugh that cut through all the shadows that had been hanging over their heads all evening. “I’m sure you can find it somewhere,” he said.

Hawke chuckled and massaged the soap into his scalp and she thought that if Anders melted anymore he would become a puddle indistinguishable from the ones on the floor. This was what she wanted, she thought. She wanted to take this dear man away from the world, away from the templars and away from all of life’s bullshit, and she wanted to dote on him and live in his laughter and drown in his smiles and she didn’t even care how much of a fucking sap that made her because this was all she needed to be happy, all she needed were his amber eyes that lit up her entire world like a beacon. She laughed, suddenly, because it was all so absurd and so good and so _right_.

“What?” said Anders, and he looked back at her. He was smiling and his eyes were glowing. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, really,” said Hawke. “Just, you know, I murdered a bunch of people earlier and now I’m giving you a bath and giggling.”

“Yes, well, that just goes to show that you’re multi-talented,” said Anders, and he settled back into blissful relaxation under Hawke’s touch. “And I appreciate it,” he murmured in addition.

They fell back into comfortable silence as Hawke continued to wash his hair, and there were so many things she wanted to tell him. _I need you_ , she wanted to say, _and you need me._ _Let me be the thunder to your lightning_ , she wanted to say. _You can sentence the unjust and I’ll carry out the executions_ , she wanted to say. But all the words died in her throat, because as close as they were now in that small room, as intimate as this all was, she still didn’t know how to read him. What did he want? Did he feel the same way she did? A soul born in a whirlwind, recognizing a twin spirit born in that very same storm?

_Oh, stop, Hawke. You are too damn sentimental, you know that?_

“So,” she said, once she’d thoroughly lathered Anders’ hair. “Any ideas on how you’re going to rinse?”

“Like this,” said Anders, and he dipped his head under water for a few seconds before popping back out of it, and he got water everywhere and they both laughed.

She found a comb, now, and gently began unworking the snags. Beneath the dirt and grime that she’d washed out, his hair was soft and silky— fine threads of spun gold— and Hawke never wanted to stop touching it. But Anders seemed to be content to let her take as long as she wanted, and she did, before finally pulling his hair back together and using his ragged tie to put it up the way he liked it. “There,” she said. “All better.”

“I need to get you to do that more often,” said Anders.

“Oh? Be careful what you wish for.” Hawke stood up. She was reluctant to leave him, but she didn’t want to overstay her welcome. She had been desperately trying to make all of her flirtation look casual, for his sake, even if it was becoming increasingly difficult. “Anyway. I’ll let you bathe.” She headed towards the door. “The towels and robe are just on the floor. Come find me when you’re done, okay?”

She left quickly, because she felt that the longer she stayed, the more difficult it would be to pull herself away from him. She went upstairs to her bedroom, where she pried off her bloodied combat robes and replaced them with her house clothes. Then she headed out to the kitchen where she made herself a cup of tea. She was stirring in some sugar when she heard a noise behind her and she turned to see Anders walking up. He was in blue house robes with the Amell crest on them, and Hawke couldn’t help but note that he looked good in that crest. _Why yes_ , she thought, _I am selfishly claiming him for myself_. He had his pinky finger in an ear while he rubbed out excess water, and Hawke found it impossibly cute that he was comfortable enough around her to do so. “Hey,” he said as he approached. “I want to thank you, again. For your hospitality, I mean.”

Hawke smiled at him. “Tea?”

“I’m good, thank you,” said Anders.

Hawke took a sip and then put the cup down. “Here,” she said. “I’ll show you the guest room.”

“Guest room?” Anders looked genuinely confused.

“You know. Where you can sleep for the night.”

“I… oh, no, you don’t need to offer that.” Anders scratched the back of his head nervously.

“Yes I do, because your coat is going to have to dry overnight and I’m not letting you go to Darktown in those robes. How does your coat grow all those feathers, anyway? I swear it molted out hundreds of them in the wash but it still looks the same.”

“A wizard did it,” Anders joked. “And the molted ones are gifts. For you.”

“For me? Really? How sweet of you!” Hawke played along.

“Oh yes. They’re mementos. Whenever you’re alone you’ll have a fistful of dirty feathers so you can remember your very favorite spirit healer.”

Hawke grinned as she walked him to the guest room. “I’m sure a fistful is excessive. Leave me one and we’ll call it good.”

“If you insist, messere.” Anders had a mischievous glint in his eye as he said the word.

The guest room wasn’t anything special, Hawke thought, but Anders was impressed nonetheless. “I… don’t know when I last slept in a real bed,” he admitted as he looked at the clean blankets.

“It’ll go with your real bath, then,” said Hawke. She paused at the doorway as Anders walked in.

He turned and looked over at her, smiling. “Thank you. This is more than I deserve, really.”

“I’m… pretty sure a basic bath and bed are not more than you deserve,” Hawke chuckled. “Anyways. You sleep well, alright? Come poke me if you need anything.”

Carefully she shut the door and went back to the kitchen, where she finished her tea, and then she went upstairs to her own bedroom. She was exhausted after the day’s events, and her overly self-indulgent fantasies about _what if it gets cold in Anders’ room and he shows up in a bit to warm up_ ultimately only lasted a few minutes before she was fast asleep.

  


It took Hawke a few moments, upon waking up the next morning, to remember that Anders was downstairs.

At which point she bolted out of bed and went straight downstairs to check on him.

But the door to his room was ajar, and upon peeking in she saw that he was gone and that the robes he had borrowed were folded neatly on his bed, which had obviously been slept in but then hastily remade.

No. He hadn’t. Had he?

She went out back. Birds were singing and the dawn air was crisp and fresh, and his coat was gone from the clothesline.

He had.

Hawke sighed. She should’ve expected it. And she wasn’t upset, no— not really. He probably just hadn’t wanted to wake her up.

But deep down inside she had been hoping he would’ve said goodbye, at least.

Oh well.

The previous night had been too good to be true, almost, and of course it had to end at some point.

Lazily she went back inside and slumped into the chair at her writing desk. She was hungry, and there were still biscuits from the day before.

But that’s when she saw something tucked carefully and deliberately between a couple of papers.

One, single feather. From Anders’ coat.

Hawke took it carefully and smelled it. _It smells like him._

She smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders really looks quite fetching in blue house robes. No seriously, just [check out this mod.](http://www.nexusmods.com/dragonage2/mods/4017/?)
> 
> Sorry for yet another tease with these two! ;D Don't worry, I promise they will eventually get together and be very happy about it.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	17. Tui E Ma, Dore Na

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke gets mad and spills some backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for an anxiety attack.

After that night, things began to stabilize in Hawke’s life.

Well, mostly.

She did manage to get a steady income, thanks to Hubert. After the Bone Pit fiasco he’d agreed to split ownership of the mine with her, and now she went once a week or so to check in on things and scare off any monsters or baddies— usually with either Fenris or Aveline and their nasty swords at her side. All in all, it was a good arrangement. She had a steady income, and she also got to go cause trouble every so often.

She shouldn’t be complaining, she thought.

And yet.

Things came to a bit of a head some months later after one of these particular excursions. She and Aveline were on their way back to Kirkwall after a successful routing of a couple of rogue dragonlings and Hawke was using some leaves to wipe blood off of her staff as they went. “You should be more careful about carrying that thing around Kirkwall, Hawke,” said Aveline. “You might be Hightown nobility, now, but the templars won’t just keep looking the other way. I’ve heard things are heating up with the Knight-Commander.”

“Okay, first of all, it’s not a staff. It’s a scepter, declaring me Queen of this Garbage Town.” Hawke tossed the leaves aside and gave her staff a twirl.

“Hawke, I’m serious.” Aveline’s mouth formed a straight line.

Hawke ignored her. “Secondly, it doubles as a halberd. You see that pointy bit on the end? Not a staff.”

Aveline sighed. “I… guess that excuse can work. For now. But really, you should think about maybe putting a bit more stock into your safety. And I promise I’m not just saying that to be annoying. I’m saying it as a friend.”

“Aww. Even though I’m an apostate?” Hawke teased.

“What can I say?” Aveline said. “You’re not like the other apostates.”

And that probably should have been that, except the phrase jarred Hawke, suddenly. _Not like other apostates._ “What do you mean?” she asked.

“What?” asked Aveline.

“Not like other apostates. What do you mean by that?”

Aveline appeared genuinely caught off guard by the question. “Well… you know… they’re not… like you.”

“Not like me because why?” Hawke snapped. “Because most mages are bad people? Is that what you meant?”

“Maker’s breath, Hawke. It was a compliment, not a condemnation. Can’t you just take a compliment for once?”

Hawke said nothing, but was silent the rest of the way into town. Aveline didn’t try to talk to her further, and Hawke didn’t blame her.

  


She and Aveline parted ways soon after reaching city limits and Hawke found a convenient secluded spot in Lowtown where she could kick a wall over and over again. Then she bashed the pointed end of her staff into it and cast a few fireballs at it, and then punched it. That latter action was probably a bad idea because she wound up with a few splinters in her hand, but she felt better, at least.

Aveline’s words echoed in her head as she took a moment to breathe and compose herself again. _Not like the others. You’re not like the others._ It pissed her off in about four different ways and without thinking she balled her hand into a fist and punched the wall again.

More fucking splinters.

She stared numbly at her injured hand, which was starting to bleed a little, and then looked over at the staff that she’d set down beside her. Aveline’s voice was in her head again. _You should be more careful about carrying that thing around Kirkwall, Hawke._

No. Fuck that.

She was a mage… she was a fucking mage Maker fucking damn it all to the Void and back she was a fucking mage a fucking—

And Hawke grabbed her staff and poured all her energy into her weapon as she cast wave after wave of angry magical energy at the cracked wall. Finally, exhausted, she sat down and pulled her knees up in front of her chest and rested her forehead on them.

She wasn’t crying, no, because she wasn’t sad.

She was simply angry.

And it was, she thought, a Good Angry. A Righteous Angry.

Hawke let out a breath to calm herself.

Her hand hurt.

  


When she went to Anders’ clinic later a few moments later, she was surprised to find him alone.

She hadn’t properly talked to him in weeks. Months, maybe. He was constantly busy, or not at home when she dropped by. She had started bringing him food, now and again. Partially it was an excuse to see him, but partially it was because he never fucking fed himself so she’d just have to be the one to do it. He always looked at her gratefully when she showed up with a little basket of goods, even if he was knee deep in patients when she did so. He’d give her a warm smile from across the room and that would make everything worth it and keep her going for another week.

Hawke didn’t have a basket of food when she showed up, this time. And really, she didn’t know if going would even be worth it. She expected him to either be gone or too busy to talk. But this time his entire side of Darktown was quiet and she heard scratching noises from within his clinic and the door was ajar, so she poked her head in. “Anders?”

Anders was at his desk, a quill in his hand and an inkwell to his right, and he was writing something. He appeared to be very occupied with whatever it was, and finished up his train of thought before looking up. “Hawke?”

“Hey,” said Hawke. She walked in and smiled at him. “You busy?”

And Anders smiled back. “For you? Never.”

Hawke laughed because of course he was being ironic, and he knew it, the little shit. She held up her battered hand. “Got any bandages?”

Anders’ face immediately became one of concern and he nearly leaped out of his chair as he rushed to her side. “Hawke! What did you do?”

“Oh, nothing really,” said Hawke nonchalantly. “I just got mad.”

Anders took her hand in his and Hawke immediately felt the gentle, warm glow of his healing magic flow into her. There were really no words, she thought, to describe how it felt to be healed by magic. It felt like something wonderful, miraculous… but also warm and soft. Like a fluffy, downy hug, only amplified by feelings and sensations that she couldn’t even begin to describe. Afterward, her hand felt like pins and needles where the splinters had been magically pushed out— and Anders was still holding it, tenderly, as he dug through his pouch with his free hand and pulled out a bandage. Gently he wrapped her hand up, and Hawke watched him as he worked. He was all gold and light and softness and eyes with a depth to them that she didn’t think she could ever comprehend.

She’d almost certainly get lost in them if she were to look into them too long, she thought.

Finally Anders finished and he looked at her and tilted his head. Notably, he was still holding her hand. “Take it easy for a few days,” he told her. “Don’t go getting too angry again.” He smiled.

And Hawke smiled, too, and she was genuinely disappointed when Anders finally let go of her hand. “Are you writing something?” she asked. “What is it?”

“It’s a manifesto,” said Anders. “For mage rights. I’ve been thinking… maybe if I can put my thoughts into words… it will be easier to reach people.”

“Did you just start working on that recently?” Hawke asked.

Anders nodded. “About a week ago. The problem is that no one listens to me. I’m just another Darktown refugee. And even if I wasn’t, well— I’m a mage.” He sighed, and his words grew quieter as he added, “ _You_ know how it is.”

Hawke’s anger, which had dissipated almost entirely in the last few minutes, began to bubble to the surface again. She saw, in her mind’s eye, that wall that she’d taken out her rage on just moments earlier. She shut her eyes and looked away. 

Anders saw her reaction, of course, and was immediately concerned. “Hawke?”

“I want to help,” said Hawke suddenly, looking back at him.

Anders smiled. “So you’ve said. More than once.”

“How do I help?”

“You have already helped immensely, Hawke. More than you know. I can’t ask you to do anything further.”

“Why not?” Hawke pressed. Her hand was beginning to throb a bit.

“I…” Anders looked uncomfortable, suddenly, and he faltered, but finally he said, “I don’t want anything to happen to you. You are…” he paused, again, looked away, as though he was grasping for words. “You are my dearest friend,” he said finally, as he looked back over at her, and Hawke knew from his words and his expression that he was telling the truth, and in that moment, _in that wonderful moment_ , all the anger in her heart flushed itself away, just for a second, and in its stead was warmth and love. But before she could say anything Anders was continuing. “And it would kill me if anything happened to you.”

“But you won’t let anything happen to me,” said Hawke.

“No, of course not,” said Anders, and this time there was no uncertainty in his voice and the words were falling from his mouth. “I’d drown the world in blood to keep us safe.”

“I know,” said Hawke without missing a beat. “And I’ll kill anyone who gets close to us. You know I will. So why are you worried?”

“You shouldn’t be getting involved with me,” said Anders. “You should be… you should be doing the exact opposite thing. You should be staying away from me. _Everyone_ should. I’m—”

“Anders.” Hawke cut him off. He looked up at her with those soft amber eyes, and Hawke noted, suddenly, how he always looked at her like that when she said his name. As though she was reaching out to a part of him that no one else could reach.

“We moved a lot when I was a kid. Do you know why? Because people would get suspicious. They’d begin to figure out that my father was a mage. Then when I got older they’d begin to figure it out with me. I still remember…” she paused for a moment and laughed nervously as she dredged up memories that she had long had buried deep in her subconscious. “I was about, I don’t know. Seven years old or so. I figured out that I could freeze things. Flowers in the yard. Vegetables in the garden. My father told me that I must never, ever, show anyone what I could do. He told me the rest of the world wouldn’t understand. That the rest of the world would be scared of me. I didn’t really get what he was saying, but, you know, I idolized my dad, so I promised him.

“So about a week later these kids at school are messing with me. Calling me names. No real reason, they were just being assholes. You know kids. And I remembered what my father had said, and I thought to myself, fuck it. I’ll show them they’re going to have to be scared of me. Flicked my wrist and froze this kid’s boots to the ground.

“I think that was the first time I ever… truly saw someone scared of me. Actual fear in his eyes. I was seven years old and that’s when I knew what it was like for someone to look at me like I was a monster.

“That’s when the namecalling became really vicious. ‘Mage’, they called me, and I was confused. My family didn’t often go to the chantry— and now I know _why_ —” Hawke chuckled wryly, “—but you hear things growing up, and I had heard about mages from the other kids. Mages are monsters, demons. They go after kids at night who don’t go to bed on time and suck all their blood out of them and use them for their rituals. Mages are where Darkspawn came from, they said. Darkspawn and demons and everything bad.

“And up until then— up until that point, I’d known that my dad could use magic, and now I knew that I could too, but I didn’t make the connection between _using magic_ and _being a mage_. I thought— I don’t know. It had just never occurred to me that they were the same thing.

“But the other kids kept calling me that. ‘Mage,’ they called me, and over and over I just… I remember screaming at them ‘I’m not a mage! Stop calling me that!’ One kid shoved me down, and I cast a tiny fireball at him, my first— singed his hair. He screamed and ran away.

“By that point the other kids were starting to run away, too, yelling for the teacher. ‘She’s a mage! She’s a mage!’ they were yelling. And I didn’t know what else to do so I turned and ran.

“I ran all the way home and ran into my mother’s arms. ‘Mum, mum, they’re calling me a mage,’ I sobbed. ‘Tell them I’m not.’

“But she hushed me, and comforted me, and she never told them— or told me— that I wasn’t a mage. She got my father and the twins— they were babies then— and late that night we left town in the dark. And though my parents never told me so, I knew— I _knew_ that it was because of me. Because those kids were right. I was a mage. I was a fucking mage, a monster just like in the stories, and it was because of me that we had to run away.”

Hawke looked away briefly, not daring to look at Anders. He was the first person she had ever told this story to. Not even Carver and Bethany had ever known. She took a few breaths before she began talking again. “We were on the run for a few days. Then we settled down in a new house somewhere, in a new town. That first night that we were there I heard my mother crying.” Hawke looked down. “Because of me. Not because of anything I did— but because of what I am. A mage. A monster.”

She took another breath to steady herself before continuing. “My dad told me to own it. If you’re proud to be a mage, he said, no one can take that away from you. But pride doesn’t take away fear, does it? Pride doesn’t take away hearing the other kids talk shit about mages while you sit and smile and nod your head. Pride doesn’t take away hearing everyone around you talk about how people like you deserve to be locked away. And pride… pride doesn’t take away someone finding out what you are and saying ‘Oh, it’s okay, you’re not like the others.’” Hawke sighed. “Anyways. I don’t know why I told you all that just now. I guess I just… you’re not alone, alright? It’s not just your fight. You can’t do all this alone. There’s only so many of us and we have to…” Hawke was looking away again, at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, _anywhere but at Anders_ — “…in my family we used to say ‘Hawkes stick together’. But do you know what else my dad told me once? ‘Mages stick together.’ And I… I mean, I thought I understood that, but… thinking about it now… I don’t know if I did. Until… I dunno. Until I met you, I guess.” Hawke realized, suddenly, how very pathetic this all sounded, and she started to regret having admitted all of this. She’d… sort of had a point, she thought, when she began telling this whole story, but along the way she’d lost it and now she was oversharing and…

She heard shuffling and knew, without looking up, that Anders was moving to stand very close beside her. She still didn’t look up at him. She felt oddly embarrassed about her entire confession and didn’t know if she could bring herself to look into those golden eyes.

Anders, of course, wouldn’t be denied. “You’re not a monster,” he said softly. And Hawke had heard those words many times, before, but somehow they were different when Anders said them.

Because he, by virtue of simply also being a mage— _understood_.

Hawke shrugged, though. “I might be,” she said. She didn’t know if she was worthy of Anders’ compassion. He was _too_ good, almost, and she was, well… not.

But Anders was persistent. “Monsters have swords on their armor and take children away from their families,” he said. “And force people to hide. And I could be wrong, I suppose, but I don’t think you’ve done any of that.”

He was very close to her ear and she could hear the smile in his voice, and she turned to look at him, finally, and sure enough, he was smiling at her warmly. “You’re right, though,” he said. “It’s not just my fight. It’s the fight of every mage.” He looked away himself, now. “It’s not right of me to keep you at arms’ length if you wish you help. The truth is, I can use all the help I can get.”

Anders fidgeted with the golden chain on his coat as he spoke, and Hawke couldn’t help but get the impression that he wasn’t telling the full story.

Right. There was that concept of _them_.

Was that why he had been refusing her help? He didn’t want to be close to her? And why? Was it because he didn’t feel the same way? Or was he trying to fend it off? Every time she thought she could read him, he turned around and cut himself off again.

 _Does he truly_ , Hawke thought, _think he’s meant to be alone?_

“You… do know you’re not a monster either, right?” Hawke said. In her heart, though, she already knew what he thought. _He’s a mage. Deep down, of course he thinks it, no matter how hard he denies it. It’s there, it’s burrowed and rooted into his soul like a tick, because society planted it there when he was young._

_Fuck society. Fuck society forever for fucking hurting him._

Anders scratched his chest and didn’t look at her. “Sometimes I wonder,” he admitted.

“You,” said Hawke, “Are the best person I’ve ever met. And I don’t say nice things about many people. About anyone, really. Actually I’m… usually calling them dicks or something. I mean, for real. I’m kind of a bitch.” She smiled at him. “But you’re special.”

A blush crept into Anders’ cheeks and he looked over at Hawke— but not at her face.

He was looking at her hand. The one he’d been holding a few moments before.

“Anders?” Hawke asked softly.

He looked away again, as though her voice was something he couldn’t quite deal with.

“Anders,” said Hawke. “You don’t have to…” she paused, suddenly wondering if she was saying too much, if this was too bold… but then she continued, “You don’t have to be alone.”

“I should be,” said Anders. The reply was little more than a whisper.

“Anders,” Hawke said again, and her voice was gentle. “Look at me.”

But he wouldn’t. “I can’t,” he said. His voice was raspy and pained. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes were shut and he was looking away, and it hurt, it hurt Hawke so much to look at him and feel so helpless. But she had seen him like this before, back when they were miles underground, and she knew that he had been hurt in the past and that sometimes there were things that, ultimately, only time could heal.

“Would you… like for me to leave for now?” Hawke asked him. “And come back tomorrow, maybe?”

“I… that might be best, yes,” said Anders. He still wasn’t looking at her.

“Alright,” said Hawke. “That’s fine. I’m not upset.”

“You’re not?”

Hawke shook her head even though she knew he still wasn’t looking at her. “It’s okay. I’ll come back tomorrow. Is that alright?”

“Yes.”

Anders was almost shaking as he turned so she couldn’t see his face any longer. “You are… too good. Too good.”

Hawke left him, reluctantly. Had it been anything else that caused his anxiety, she would have stayed and comforted him personally, like she had done months before in the Deep Roads. But as _she_ seemed to have been what triggered it this time, well— she would let him heal on his own.

She didn’t take it personally. Anders had been hurt and abused so many times. It was a wonder he managed to keep it together as well as he usually did, honestly.

She walked home and her staff was over her shoulder, where everyone could see it.

And if anyone thought she was a monster for it, well. She’d show them what a real monster was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter was taken from this [brilliant fan translation of Mage Pride](http://archiveofourown.org/works/221552), which is even more lovely when seen on [this YouTube video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o7tpL4cMvI0). In Tevene, it means "You and my pride" - talking about mage pride, of course.
> 
> Thanks for reading and leaving lovely comments! I'm sorry to make things tough for Anders again :( Just a few more chapters and then he'll let Hawke love him <3


	18. Fall Into Your Arms Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Justice visit the Fade and have a one-on-one conversation. About Things.

True to her word, Hawke returned the next day.

She had initially been worried about what state she might find Anders in, but he seemed to be doing well and was immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” he told her soon after she arrived. “I… have moments where I… kind of freeze up and don’t know what to do. I’ve been that way since the solitary confinement— and honestly having Justice’s thoughts mixed up with mine tends to just make things more confusing.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” said Hawke, and she smiled at him. “I understand.”

“I never thought I’d find a friend who understood,” said Anders, and he smiled as well.

Hawke took special notice of the word “friend” and how the way Anders had said it was so very… straightforward. They were back to that, it appeared, and Hawke wanted to kick herself for pining so damn much when he had made it so very clear that nothing was going to happen.

Well, even so, one thing remained certain. “I’m going to kill the people who put you in solitary, by the way,” Hawke said as though she was talking about what she wanted for lunch.

Anders laughed fondly. “I believe you.”

“Oh,” said Hawke. “And while I’m here, I’ve got a question for you. You’ve spent time in a Circle, so I imagine you might know more about this than I do. Do you remember that kid we helped a year or so back? Feynriel, his name was?”

“The one we helped send to the Dalish?” Anders asked.

Hawke nodded. “I guess there’s… something wrong with him. Merrill told me this morning before I headed over. She asked if we could meet up with her and Feynriel’s mother in the alienage.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“That’s the thing. His nightmares are getting out of control, I guess. She called him a… dreamer?” Hawke shrugged. “Do you know what that is?”

Anders furrowed his brows. “I didn’t know dreamers still existed. Are they sure?”

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” said Hawke. “Shall we?”

  


When they got to the alienage, Merrill and Arianni were standing outside the massive vhenadahl tree that was the location’s centerpiece — as was Merrill’s Keeper, Marethari. Hawke had met Marethari before and gave her a respectful nod. She didn’t know much about how a non-elf was supposed to interact with a Dalish Keeper, so she kept her interactions short rather than accidentally offend.

Merrill had been pacing back and forth, but she stopped and looked over at Hawke, relieved, when she arrived. “Hawke! I’m so glad you’re here. It’s… worse than we expected.”

“Worse?” Hawke didn’t like the sound of that.

“Hawke,” said Marethari. “Thank you for coming to help. Allow me to explain. We’ve had difficulty with the boy living amongst us. We have done our best to teach him, but I fear his particular talent is one that I do not have much experience with. He is what those in Tevinter call a somniari - a dreamer.”

“Are you sure?” Anders asked. He looked skeptical. “I haven’t heard of dreamers existing in… well, ages. Not since the Imperium had them centuries ago.”

“We have had a few of them among the Dalish in the past,” said Marethari, “Although it has been many, many decades since I have heard even rumors of it. I do wish I had another explanation for his recurring nightmares, but… I do not. His nightmares are unlike any that I have seen before, and unless he learns to control them, I fear that he is at risk for possession by a demon. And he would be a very, very dangerous abomination. We need to do all we can to prevent that.”

“Keeper,” said Merrill, “You… said there was a way to help him. Is that right?”

“Yes, lethallan,” Merethari replied. “There is. But it is very, very dangerous.” She looked up at Hawke. “Currently, we have Feynriel safe up on Sundermount. He is in a very deep sleep. If you wish to help, I am going to have to ask you to do something rather… unconventional. You will need to enter the Fade and speak to him directly. My hope is that this will help him to confront these demons, rather than fall prey to them.”

“Enter… the Fade.” Hawke was stunned. “I… don’t you need lyrium for that or something? Like, a lot of it, I mean.”

“What she said,” said Anders, who was equally confused.

“You do need lyrium, yes,” said Marethari. “However, I know a Dalish ritual that can make the process succeed even with just small amounts of it. That is the ritual I will be performing today.” She looked squarely at Hawke, Anders, and Merrill. “All three of you are mages. I trust that your ability to function in the Fade is better than most. Would you be willing to go through with this ritual and help Feynriel?”

“Yes,” said Merrill without hesitation. Then she paused for a moment and added, “I mean. If Hawke wants to.” She looked over at Hawke.

“There is no alternative?” Hawke asked.

Arianni spoke up. “The alternative would be to give him to the templars. I’m… worried what they will do, should they…”

“I’ll do it,” said Hawke. “I’ll be damned if another mage is made Tranquil because of me.”

A gentle hand was on her shoulder, suddenly. Anders’. She gave him a quick glance and he smiled at her. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re coming too?” Hawke asked him softly, hopefully.

Anders nodded, but his voice was anxious when he spoke. “I confess that I don’t know how Justice will react to it. But I will not stand by and do nothing when a mage is in trouble.”

Marethari coughed. “If I may talk to you in private, Hawke, before we begin.”

Hawke nodded warily and followed Marethari a ways away. Marethari paused, then, and looked up at her. “I am very, very grateful for your desire to help. But I need you to understand something. If something happens in the Fade— should Feynriel become possessed, or turn against you— you will need to kill him.”

“Kill him? In the Fade, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“And that does… what? Does that kill him outside the Fade, as well?”

“It…” Marethari took a breath before continuing. “It will make him what the Chantry calls Tranquil.”

“Then no.” Hawke turned to walk back to the others, but paused momentarily to look back at Marethari. “That was all you had to tell me?”

Marethari sighed but nodded. “That was all I had to tell you. I will prepare the ritual inside Arianni’s home, and tell you when I am ready.”

  


Marethari disappeared inside the hut that was Arianni’s home, and Hawke returned to the others. She was bristling, and it must have been visible because Anders immediately took her aside. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What did she tell you?”

Hawke made sure that Arianni and Merrill, who were talking to each other, were out of earshot, and then said quietly, “She wanted me to kill him in the Fade if things go south. That would make him Tranquil.”

“ _What?_ ” Anders nearly screeched the word.

“I told her no.” The words were biting as Hawke said them, and her eyes were hard, but she looked up at Anders and smiled at him to soothe him. “I would never.”

“I…” Anders took a deep breath and then smiled back. “I know. I know you would never. I just… it’s hard, sometimes. To remember that. I’m not used to it.”

They stood there for a moment, in silence, Hawke simply appreciating his presence. He was as solid as he was soft, and just having him there was comforting. Had she been going into the Fade alone, or perhaps with anyone else, the very thought would probably have left her considerably more anxious than she was. But as it stood, she was going with Anders, so it was going to be okay.

  


As it turned out, visiting the Fade when she was awake was very like visiting the Fade in dreams.

Everything was in a shade of green or gray or greenish-gray and things that should have been in the distance were very nearby and things that should have been nearby were very far away. It was as though she was wearing a thick set of wavy glasses.

They were in a building, of some sort— that much Hawke could make out.

And to her left Merrill had her staff ready and was murmuring something in the Elvish language, which Hawke assumed was a prayer of some sort, and to her right Anders was a glowing blue flame. “I did not expect to return to the Fade in this manner,” said a deep and commanding voice.

“Anders?” Hawke asked, although she had a feeling what the response would be.

“I am Justice. Anders has told you of me. And we have talked, once before.” The voice was smooth and Justice looked at her with blue eyes that were inquisitive and sharp and quite the opposite of Anders’, which were golden and soft. The sudden difference made Hawke’s head spin.

“Is… Anders still in there?” Hawke asked then. It was not a question she had been intending to ask, but she felt that she needed reassurance, suddenly. She felt a bit silly for it, really.

“I am Justice and I am also Anders. I am one being. My thoughts as Justice are… humming louder here than they do most places.” He looked ahead. “Come. It would be unwise to waste time.”

So Hawke followed, a bit mystified— but she wasn’t afraid. Anders and Justice were both there, in a way, and she trusted the both of them.

Or, it seemed, the one of them.

They headed in, all three on their guard. Dozens of tiny wisps and spirits drifted around, and it wasn’t long before they ran into a rage demon who wasted no time in attacking them. Justice was in first, leaping into the fray almost before Hawke and Merrill even had a chance to react, and he was all aglow as the three of them dispatched of it. Once that was done, Justice turned to the others. “We should be on our guard,” he said. “There are bound to be stronger demons here as well.”

“We could try talking to them,” Merrill chirped.

“You cannot reason with them,” Justice replied. “To attempt to do so would be futile.”

Merrill looked disappointed, but remained quiet, and the little group ventured further into the Fade.

The building they were in eventually gave way to a dim, dull-colored courtyard, and it was here that Justice’s intuition proved itself correct. Standing there in the middle of the courtyard, watching the three mages closely, was an enormous, almost slug-like demon. The creature had long talons for fingers and was crouched over at as it watched them, and even though the creature appeared to be waiting for something and not in any hurry to move, Hawke got the impression that it most certainly would not hesitate to attack them if it wanted.

So she paused and wielded her staff, and at her side Justice said “A sloth demon. They can be tricky.”

“Mmm,” the demon’s voice rumbled at them now, and it tilted its head slowly. “I have a name, spirit. Mine is Torpor.”

Justice was ignoring it and speaking to the others. “Do not bother trying to talk to it,” he said. “It will attack us, inevitably.”

“Is that so? Perhaps talking is all that I ask.” Torpor’s words were slow and smooth and methodical. “You are here for the boy, are you not?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hawke told it.

“Are you going to punch it?” Merrill asked. “Varric told me you punched a demon once. I think it may have been a bit rude, myself, but it does sound very exciting.”

“I might,” Hawke replied.

Torpor sounded disappointed. “So there is to be no talking, then?”

“Nope,” said Hawke.

“A pity,” said Torpor. “It would be so… so much easier to just talk, you know? No more of this… fighting…”

A strange sensation gripped Hawke, then, and she didn’t like it. She suddenly felt very heavy, as though something was weighing her down. She tried to lift her staff, but… her arm was just… so… heavy…

Around her things began to swirl and she felt very dizzy, but then at her side she heard Justice thundering “You shall _not_ have her!” and then he and Torpor were fighting frantically and as soon as the demon’s attention was no longer on Hawke, she snapped out of her haze and joined the melee as well. Merrill did, too, and then spells were whizzing through the air and Hawke and the others hit the demon with blast after blast of magical energy.

The creature was tough, and the fight was long, and at one point Torpor turned to look right into her again and there it was; everything was heavy and leaden and required more energy than Hawke could muster and she bent over—

—and then Justice landed one final, furious blow on Torpor and the demon fell with a slump. Justice was sizzling with heat and power and his eyes were electric as he looked down at the monster at his feet. “You,” he said, “Will not harm her. I will not allow it.”

The spell on Hawke was broken now but she was still spent from the battle and she took a few breaths and steadied herself. “Justice…”

“Are you alright?” Justice asked her after a few moments.

“Yes,” said Hawke. “I just need a minute. Merrill?” She turned.

Merrill was gone.

“…Merrill?” Hawke asked again. “Shit.” She turned and began to frantically search the courtyard for her, finally spotting Merrill’s waifish form framed inside a doorway. Hawke ran towards her, with Justice close behind. By the time she got there, though, Merrill had disappeared inside the door entirely and Hawke and Justice had no choice but to follow.

The room was much smaller than the courtyard, and there were spirits all around. They were taking on the form of various elves, and there in the corner was… Feynriel?

“Feynriel!” Hawke called out at him.

He looked over at her. “Hawke?”

“And here he is,” said a familiar voice. Hawke followed the sound of the voice and was rather shocked to see Marethari.

Or, perhaps, a facsimile of Marethari.

Everything was so confusing here in the Fade. Hawke looked over at Justice.

“A demon,” he said without pause. “Do not trust it.”

Not-Marethari ignored them and beckoned for Feynriel to approach. “Feynriel is one of us,” she said to the elf-shaped spirits that stood nearby. “His features may mark him as human, but in his heart beats the blood of the Dales.”

“Feynriel,” Hawke said again. “That’s not Marethari. That’s a demon.”

 _Now_ Not-Marethari noticed her. “Do not listen to them,” she said. “They are trying to keep you from reaching your potential.”

Hawke kept her full attention on Feynriel. “Listen to me. If you fall prey to these demons, you will become an abomination. You have to learn to control it.”

“I…” Feynriel was torn as he looked at Hawke and then at Not-Marethari and then back at Hawke, and finally he turned and ran out the door, roughly shoving his way past the others to do so.

And now all the elves faded away into nothingness, and Not-Marethari revealed its true form as a gigantic pride demon. It glared at Hawke. “That was terribly cruel of you, you know,” it said smoothly. “The boy was mine.”

“He was… _really_ not,” said Hawke. She had her staff ready, and beside her Justice did too.

“A pity, really. But perhaps I can still gain something from this encounter.” The demon looked over at Merrill and smiled. “You have dealt with spirits in the past, have you not? You seem like an intelligent person.”

“I… have talked to a few. In the past,” said Merrill. She seemed conflicted about how to respond, and she looked over at Hawke.

Hawke shook her head at her warningly. “Don’t,” she said. “It’s not going to end well.”

“Oh,” the demon told Hawke, “It might not end well for _you_ , but for _her_ it could go just the way she wants it to.” It looked back at Merrill, with eyes that were full of malice. “Imagine,” it said, “Having the power to save your clan. Your people. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

“It… is,” said Merrill.

 _Shit_. “Justice,” said Hawke, a warning to him to be on the lookout.

“Hawke,” Justice nodded in acknowledgment.

“See how your so-called friends are eager to turn against you,” the demon crooned almost into Merrill’s ear. “You won’t need them anymore when your clan welcomes you back with open arms…”

Hawke had just enough time, then, to see that the demon was warping Merrill’s mind the same way Torpor had tried to warp hers, and she held up a hand and cast a quick barrier right as Merrill turned on her.

The resulting fight was utterly terrifying for multiple reasons. Fighting a mage was like trying to fight a storm, and it was always all Hawke could do to simply _survive_ — and what made it worse is that now she was fighting a _friend_. Hawke’s intent was to subdue, not kill, and Hawke wasn’t sure if she knew exactly how to _do_ that.

There was also the slight issue that the pride demon was fighting her as well.

Fortunately, she had Justice.

So the fight was two forces of nature verses two more forces of nature, and Justice’s fury would not be contained.

He focused his rage on the desire demon, which Hawke thought was a good idea, because it allowed her to keep her attention on Merrill. She was convinced that the spell would be broken once the demon was killed, so until then she deflected blow after blow and simply tried to _hold out_. She was thoroughly frightened by the thought that Merrill might turn to blood magic mid-fight, but fortunately she seemed to be too distracted to try it. Instead she hurled a torrent of spells at Hawke and it was all Hawke could do to keep up. Finally the fight ended in a tussle on the ground, with Hawke pinning Merrill down, and she watched as the frenzied rage in Merrill’s eyes faded away and turned to abject horror as Justice landed one final blow on the demon.

For a moment all was still and quiet. Hawke was on top of Merrill, her staff against her throat, and Merrill gasped at her. “Hawke!”

Hawke was slow to respond— just in case— but then Justice was beside her and she felt emboldened and moved her staff and stood up.

Merrill stood up as well— slowly, and wearing an expression of shame. “Hawke,” she said, and she looked down at the floor. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

Justice looked over at her. “This is why you should not consort with demons,” he said. “Are you not aware that they are dangerous?”

“I know they are. I’m sorry. I thought…”

Hawke held up a hand. “Wait,” she said. There would be time for discussion about this later. For now what she cared about was that Feynriel was peering at them from the doorway. “Feynriel?” She called after him.

“Hawke,” he said, and took a tentative step forward. “What are you doing here? In my dreams?”

“I’m here to help,” said Hawke.

“Help?” Feynriel looked at the odd trio skeptically.

“You are what Tevinter calls a somniari,” Hawke explained. “A dreamer. It’s a very powerful talent, but it also comes with a price. You are… prone to attracting demons. As I’m sure you can see.” She gave him an encouraging smile.

“I… see,” said Feynriel. He looked like he wasn’t especially happy with the revelation. “But… what can I do about it, then?”

“You need to learn to control it,” said Hawke. “Find people who can help you.”

“Who? The Circle?” Feynriel snorted. “They sent templars to Sundermount, you know. They were looking for me. They kept harassing the clan until finally we fought them off.”

“They would dare come after you? Even when you are far from the city?” This was Justice, his voice thundering in the small room. “I will kill them if I see them.”

Hawke, too, felt her anger rising at this revelation. “I would never send you to the Circle,” she said firmly. “I didn’t before, and I won’t now.”

Feynriel looked down at the ground. “I don’t know what to do,” he said quietly.

Hawke’s heart ached for the young man. She recognized him, she thought. His situation. His mental state. A young apostate mage with no friends and an entire world after him.

“Go to Tevinter,” she said suddenly.

“What?” Feynriel looked up at her.

Hawke hadn’t thought much about this statement when it had first popped out of her mouth, but she said it again. “Tevinter,” she said. “They have the most history with dreamers. And I know they’re not exactly the shining star of Thedas, but at least they won’t arrest you just for being a mage.”

“Huh.” Feynriel put his hands on his hips and looked away as he thought about it. “And do you… think I can learn? How to control this, I mean.”

“Hey,” said Hawke, “If I punched a demon in the face once, you can too.”

Feynriel smiled a bit. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll go to Tevinter. I’ll learn to control myself. I will. Thank you, Hawke. For everything.”

Hawke nodded at him, and Feynriel shimmered like movement behind rippled glass and then disappeared from the Fade.

“Hawke,” Merrill said now. She looked up at her with wide, sorrowful eyes. “I’m sorry. I mean I already said that but. I’m still sorry. I… come to my place later, will you? If you don’t mind, I mean.” And her form shimmered as well before finally blinking away.

So it was just Hawke and Justice left. Hawke turned to face him, to thank him, but he was speaking before she could say anything. “Before we go back— before the human part of me returns— I need to talk to you,” he said.

“Shoot,” said Hawke.

Justice looked at her with electric blue eyes that sang with the song of the Fade, but there was something else there, too. An emotion. A very human emotion, even.

Was he… flustered?

“There is something I need to tell you about Anders,” he said.

This sounded ominous. “Okay…” said Hawke.

Justice was quiet for a moment. He seemed to be pondering how to say what he wanted to say. Finally, he said, “For some time now, Anders has been… preoccupied with thoughts of you.”

 _…oh._ “He… has?” Hawke asked. She was surprised the words came out and didn’t get stuck in her heart, which had suddenly jumped into her throat.

“He thinks of you constantly. It is quite fascinating to me, in fact. You slide into his thoughts in a way that is… truly remarkable. I fear, however, that it may be distracting him. He thinks of you when he should be working. He thinks of you when he should be sleeping. Truthfully, that is when it’s most troublesome. Thoughts of you excite him and he cannot sleep until he has…” Justice cleared his throat. “…sated himself.”

_…oh. Ohhh._

“I, uh…” Hawke was quite sure she was thoroughly incapable of talking, now, but the words spilled out anyway. “I mean, if it makes you feel any better, same.”

“Same?” Justice looked at her, confused.

 _Right_. “Never mind,” she said. She was acutely aware of the fact that although this was _Justice_ she was talking to, he was in _Anders’ body_ , and she had to focus on his eyes in order to not tilt her gaze downward. _Just… relax and keep talking_ , she thought to herself. _Keep talking._ “Why are you telling me this? I mean, I like hearing it, don’t get me wrong. But. I… don’t know if this is information he wanted me to know, exactly.”

“It is because we have a mission in this life,” said Justice. “One that must be fulfilled. Whatever the cost.”

“I understand that,” said Hawke. It was the truth.

Justice looked away and his blue eyes became distant. “When I was in Amaranthine, I inhabited the body of a man named Kristoff. I could feel some of his latent memories— the same way that I can feel some of Anders’. Kristoff possessed a great love for his wife, Aura. I found it fascinating that mortals could have such endless devotion for another mortal, the way we spirits have endless devotion for the principles we stand for.” He looked back over at Hawke. “That is how he feels for you. And he would do _anything_ for you. And he— I— will also do anything for justice and for freedom. You must know this. You must know that his love burns the same way his principles do. Do not ask him to choose between the two. It may break him. And he may be forced to make a choice that neither of you wish to have him make.”

Was… was _that_ what Justice was trying to tell her? That if she kept him in his life— and she _was_ , it had already been decided; no force in Thedas was going to drag him away from her, not ever— she would have to accept that she was sharing it with his ideals?

Because that had been obvious from the start, and she had accepted it long ago.

“I already knew that,” said Hawke.

“You did?” Justice seemed surprised.

“I don’t want to change him,” Hawke explained. “I…” her voice hitched at the word _love_ , and she changed it. “I care for him as he is. It’s part of _why_ I care for him.”

Justice looked at her with fascination. “Mortals never cease to amaze me,” he said. “I thought that perhaps this would be something you would not want to hear.”

Hawke shrugged. “Other people, maybe,” she said. To her, though, it seemed like a terribly normal thing.

“But you care for him, truly?” Justice pressed. “I feel he… I feel _we_ are not an easy man to care for.”

Hawke couldn’t help but wonder, at this point, how much of _Anders_ was bubbling up to the surface as Justice admitted this vulnerability. Hawke looked at him and smiled. “I was never one to choose the easy route,” she said.

“Then… I am grateful,” said Justice. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but it seemed that Marethari’s ritual had run its course and bit by bit and color by color the Fade disappeared around them…

…and Hawke was in the real world again, in Arianni’s house, and she suddenly felt very disoriented and stumbled and fell rather awkwardly to the floor. Right next to her, crouched there on the ground, was Anders. His eyes were closed, but he opened them and looked over at Hawke.

They were golden and soft. “Hawke?” he asked.

“Anders?” Hawke reached out to him instinctively and he caught her and they held each other in silence for a moment, there on the floor. Everything that Justice had just told her was still very fresh in her mind and she buried her face into Anders’ coat and breathed him in. No one was taking him from her.

“Are you alright?” Anders’ voice was almost a whisper and he said it into the top of her head.

“Mm-hmm.” Hawke nodded into his chest. His heart was beating quickly, like a bird’s heart, and she could feel it through his coat and its rhythm was comforting. “Are _you_ okay?”

“Mm,” said Anders. “I only remember bits of what happened. It was all very hazy. Andraste’s knickers, I’m exhausted, though. We did a lot of fighting, I take it?”

“A bit,” said Hawke nonchalantly, and Anders chuckled into her hair.

Marethari arrived on scene and looked down at them and they reluctantly pulled apart. “Are you alright?” She asked them.

Hawke nodded and she and Anders stood up. “Just a bit disoriented, that’s all.”

Marethari nodded. “A side effect, I’m afraid. But I’m glad that you are otherwise well. Merrill came back before you did. She told us that you succeeded and that Feynriel is going to head to Tevinter. Arianni is trying to rush to Sundermount to catch him before he leaves. Thank you for your help. You have just saved his life.”

“We weren’t going to make him Tranquil for you,” Anders mumbled under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Marethari looked over at him.

Anders cleared his throat. “Nothing,” he said. Beside him, Hawke smiled.

  


“So you don’t remember much about what happened, huh?” It was about an hour later and Hawke and Anders were headed out of the alienage, having reassured Merrill that no, they didn’t hate her.

“I mean, I have a few memories,” said Anders. “I remember demons. And fighting. But not much beyond that.”

“Is that how it always is when Justice takes over?”

“Not always. But often. Most of our thoughts and memories blend together, but there are times when they are still distinct. This must have been one of those times, I think.” Anders looked over at her. “Why? Did I miss anything good?”

“Oh, you know,” Hawke teased, “Justice spilling the beans on some of your deepest, darkest secrets. No big deal.” She shrugged.

“Wait, what?”

“Nothing!” Hawke innocently looked at the sky.

Anders blinked and looked away. “I remember Justice talking to you alone… what did he tell you?”

“Oh we were just talking about the weather, and what you do alone at night, nothing important.”

Anders’ face turned crimson. “I…”

“Don’t worry, I’m just teasing. Or am I?” Hawke grinned. “Guess you’ll never know!”

“You’re the worst, you know that?” Anders smiled at her fondly.

“The very worst,” Hawke replied. “Oh… thank you for coming with me, by the way. I really don’t know if I could have survived that without Justice.”

“I don’t know,” said Anders. “I’m pretty convinced at this point that you’re actually invincible.”

“The unconquerable, unassailable Hawke?”

“Something like that.”

They paused at a break in the road where they would part ways. Hawke looked up at him, and he looked down at her. She wanted, very badly, to kiss him. Now that she knew what she knew, she had no reason not to… right?

But, ultimately, she didn’t. She wanted to get it right, if anything ever happened between them. She cared for him too much to rush anything he wasn’t ready for. She was sure she’d see him again soon enough, anyway.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked.

Anders smiled at her. “My door is always open for you. And the food you bring.”

  


Hawke did see him the next day, but only for a fleeting second as she dropped off her usual food basket.

Then he was gone the next several times she tried to visit him.

As it turned out, in fact, it would be weeks before she was alone with him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took a bit longer than I was expecting, I was beating my head against the first part of it for a while.
> 
> Tease for my faithful readers: I'm shooting for about three or four more chapters until The Kiss™. And there's still lots of story left after that, of course! As always, thanks for reading and leaving me comments <3


	19. Put On Your War Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke's "comfortable" life of killing people for fun and profit takes a turn for a more noble purpose.

Hawke was really, _really_ not expecting to get embroiled in some sort of mixup with the Qunari.

Her involvement with them had been going on for several months, now. It had started with the mess involving Sister Petrice and Ketojan. Hawke still hadn’t seen Sister Petrice since that little incident, which was just as well, because she still planned on killing her when she found her. But somehow the nonsense didn’t stop there. Hawke kept getting wrangled into it, somehow.

First she helped a dwarf try to gain favor with them so he could trade them for some sort of special explosive powder they had access to. She didn’t like the idea at all but the dwarf had promised good coin. Ultimately the dwarf’s gamble failed, but Hawke still got paid, which was all she really cared about.

She met the leader of Kirkwall’s Qunari at this point, who styled himself as the Arishok. He and Fenris seemed to get on well enough, oddly. Hawke didn’t like him, though. He was self-righteous and full of himself and she was still _really_ pissed off about the Qunari’s treatment of their mages.

Still, the fact of the matter was that Hawke seemed to be one of the few people in the entire city who could stare him down, and once word of _that_ got out, she became Kirkwall’s unofficial Qunari liason.

She thought it all was utterly ridiculous.

On the other hand, getting in on the Viscount’s good side was good for an apostate who was trying to keep her family and her people safe. She didn’t know exactly how many people in the city knew that the staff she no longer bothered trying to hide wasn’t really a halberd, but she figured the number was probably more than a few.

So when the Viscount asked her to deal with elves who were wanted by the Guard and had defected to the Qunari for protection, she did so. Oh, nothing had come of it, but Hawke didn’t care so long as the Viscount saw that she’d done it and approved.

Several weeks after that, the ante was upped further when the Viscount asked her to go find his son, who had gone off cavorting with the Qunari somewhere— “Not for the first time,” the Viscount rather glumly noted— and Hawke immediately agreed to help rescue him. Bullshitting to the Arishok was something she could do, yes, but she didn’t particularly enjoy it. Killing a bunch of people, though, and rescuing some kid? Now _that_ was up Hawke’s alley.

She found the young man, who was named Seamus, up on the Wounded Coast where he very adamant about the fact that he had gone there of his own free will and that he not only wanted to stay with the Qunari, but actually wanted to convert to the Qun.

Hawke was ready to lift the kid over her shoulder and carry him home when some other hired muscle appeared to do the job for her. As it turned out, Hawke quickly determined that they were asshats, and the result was a three-way fight between a group of Qunari, the offending mercenary band, and Hawke, Anders, and Varric. Hawke had, by far, the fewest numbers, but she also had two mages, whereas the other groups had exactly zero. So while the battle was fierce and bloody and lengthy it ultimately went in Hawke’s favor, and finally ended with a terror-stricken Seamus agreeing to go home because he didn’t want anymore bloodshed.

Hawke felt like a bit of an ass about it, really. A little. She would’ve felt like more of an ass if she hadn’t seen how the Qunari treated their mages.

Why yes, she was bitter.

So Hawke and her friends cleaned up and looked about for any useful loot before heading back. Varric was scrubbing blood of his crossbow when he spoke. “Hawke, I’ve gotta say. I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of the three of us versus the three dozen of them, but you and Blondie are real pieces of work.”

Hawke shrugged. She was kicking a mercenary corpse with her boot to see if any gold would fall out of his pockets. “I tried to get Isabela to come too but you know how she is with Qunari. They’re like her one phobia or something.” She struck something hard with her boot and leaned down to scoop up a handful of sovereigns.

Beside her, Anders was casting a quick spell that washed her in sparkling blue warmth. The spell eased the aches and pains in her muscles and she sighed with contentment. She hadn’t actually been able to sit down to talk to Anders in far too long. The man always seemed to be busy and on the run— helping refugees here, helping mages there, dodging templars over the other way and only returning to his clinic for quick bites of food from the basket that Hawke was leaving for him almost daily now before running off again. It was a wonder, truly, that she’d managed to run into him this time— almost literally. He had been rushing through Lowtown when Hawke found him earlier that day, and she’d turned and grabbed him. He hadn’t seen her, though, and had been so startled when she grabbed him that his eyes widened and he’d reached for his staff, but then Hawke spoke to him soothingly and he smiled at her and apologized that he hadn’t been around much.

She asked him what the rush was, and he admitted that there was none. He had been headed home after “finishing up some business” and was deep in thought and walking quickly because that’s how he got when he “was chasing an idea.” Hawke asked if he wanted to accompany her out to the Wounded Coast, and he’d agreed. It thrilled her, more than she wanted to admit, to have him beside her again.

If only she could figure out how to have him more often.

They began their trek back to town but had hardly begun when Hawke heard a commotion. She looked at the others, who looked back at her, and they followed the noise down one of the coast’s mazelike passages and finally came across what she had expected to see: fighting. It was mercenaries on mercenaries, and Hawke and the others kept their distance while she attempted to size up the situation. She wasn’t going to jump in when she didn’t know who was fighting who.

From what she could see from their hiding place behind a large rock, some of the mercenaries looked like bandits and the others looked like hired men, presumably sent out to clean them up. Unfortunately, while both sides suffered losses, it looked as though the bandits were winning out.

She scanned the rest of the encampment where they were fighting. There was a campfire, and some crates set down in the sand. There was a symbol on the crates. Hawke narrowed her eyes and tried to make it out. It looked vaguely familiar…

…she shoved her hand down into her pocket and pulled out a creased paper that she had been carrying around for months. The bounty that the man in the gleaming white armor had put up.

The very same symbol was on it.

Hawke jerked her head back up. The remaining bandits had just finished killing the last mercenary sent after them.

Well, there was no better time to jump in.

Hawke charged in with a yell, staff raised, Varric and Anders on her heels. The bandits looked up in utter shock and horror before being killed, and the fight was over almost before it began.

“See, that’s how you gotta do it, Chuckles,” said Varric afterwards. “Let other people do the dirty work for you and then swoop in for the reward.”

“They call that ‘using your resources’,” Hawke replied.

“These are those bandits that royal prat was looking for, weren’t they?” Anders asked with a smile.

“Yep,” said Hawke. She leaned down and looted some incriminating documents from off the body of the man who looked like the leader. “And now we can go get his bounty. We all done here?”

“Just a sec.” Varric leaned down and pulled out a bottle of wine out of an open crate. “Oooh. This is 8:99 vintage. Alright, yeah, I think I’m good.”

So they restarted their long walk back to town. Hawke was desperate to spend some quality time with Anders, and she walked right alongside him where she could talk to him. “Are you doing anything tonight?” she asked him.

“Tonight?” Anders thought for a moment. “I was going to meet with some associates, I think.”

“Associates?”

Anders looked around a bit and lowered his voice. “Mage associates,” he said.

Ohh, right. The Mage Underground. Hawke figured that was probably why he’d been gone a lot lately. She wanted, desperately, to be a part of whatever grand scheme Anders was involved in. Because he _was_ involved in a grand scheme, of course. Clearly. She knew him well enough to know he must be.

“When can I help?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you when you can,” he said.

Hawke decided to believe him.

  


They made it back to Kirkwall soon enough and headed straight to the Viscount’s office. Seamus had made it back in one piece and his father was endlessly grateful, and Hawke was satisfied that her status in the city was secure, once again.

Then, it was time to track down Sebastian.

The notice Hawke had taken from the board said that he was usually at the Chantry, and as that was nearby she decided to go immediately. Before going, though, she wanted to check one thing. “Anders,” she said, as they left the Viscount to his son. “I’m going to go to the Chantry now. Find this Sebastian guy and get some money out of it. You can come with me if you want, but you don’t have to.”

She was half-expecting Anders to turn it down, and she would have understood if he had. His relationship to the Chantry, as an institution, was complex and personal, and she knew that. Hawke, herself, had never really grown up with it. It was there, a nebulous thing that affected society, but it had never been something that affected her life— at least not the way it affected those who were faithful. Was there a Maker? Maybe. She didn’t know and, frankly, she didn’t care. Was Andraste real? Probably, but somehow Hawke had a feeling that Andraste wouldn’t be terribly impressed with the Chantry as it stood.

But Anders had grown up with it, and now he was having a crisis of faith, and though Hawke had never had one of those herself, she figured it couldn’t be something easy to go through.

So she was waiting for him to tell her no when he surprised her. “I’ll go,” he said.

“You sure?” Hawke asked.

Anders nodded. “I’ve been meaning to talk to the Grand Cleric,” he said. “If she’ll let me,” he added, and Hawke noted that his voice had a caustic edge as he said that.

So Varric left them and headed back to his office in the Hanged Man, and Hawke and Anders went to the chantry. This was only the second time that she had ever been in there, and the first time she'd been there during the day when she could actually take a good look at it. It was huge and spacious and opulent; whereas the chantries in Ferelden tended to be smaller and more humble, made from wood and local materials, Kirkwall’s chantry was all stone and metal and jewels and a towering statue of Andraste that Hawke assumed must have cost a fortune. Hawke and Anders both gaped as they looked around. “Bigger on the inside,” Hawke quipped.

“You could house a small army in here,” replied Anders.

“Or sell the statue alone and feed one,” Hawke added. “Isn’t the Chantry supposed to, I don’t know? Actually give money and help to the poor?”

“So they say.” Anders offered a wry smile. Hawke loved it, because it was rare to get one when he was obviously stressed. After all, for all she knew, the last time he had been here was when...

She reached out, suddenly, and took his hand and squeezed it gently. It was probably a bad idea, but she wanted him to know that she was there for him. Anders looked over at her, startled, his eyes wide, but she smiled at him and took her hand back. “Just wanted you to know that I support you,” she said.

He smiled at her, again, but this one was warmer and more genuine. “I appreciate it.”

As it turned out, the man that they were looking for was not far. He was, in fact, kneeling down and praying in front of the gilded statue. Hawke and Anders stood a ways behind him and waited… and waited… and waited some more. Sebastian, though, apparently either didn’t notice their arrival or showed no real intention of stopping what he was doing.

Hawke and Anders exchanged glances. Anders shrugged at her. Hawke, finally, cleared her throat and spoke. She figured she was probably already disrespectful to the Maker and His Bride every other damn day of the week anyway. May as well keep it up. “So, uh, sorry to interrupt, but are you Sebastian Vael?”

The man still didn’t move, and Hawke was wondering if she should ask again when suddenly, slowly, he stood and turned. With his bronzed skin, matching hair, and gleaming white armor, he was every inch a picture of Starkhaven royalty. “I am. Do you need something?” he asked.

“Sort of,” said Hawke. She fished about in her pocket and pulled out the papers she had taken from one of the bandits she’d killed earlier and passed them to Sebastian. “I believe you were on the hunt for these fellows?”

Sebastian took the papers from her and his eyes widened. “You… you did it. You killed the men who murdered my family.” He looked up at her in disbelief. “But I… I sent someone else, earlier…”

“You did,” said Hawke. “He and his friends didn’t make it. But I did. I happened to be in the area for something else and, well.” She shrugged. “Anyways. I figured you’d want to know.”

“I… I don’t…” Sebastian looked back up at her. “I don’t know what to say… except, perhaps, thank you. I’ve been hunting these fiends for years. Some of them I managed to get myself. Others have been eluding me. And now you’ve finally brought an end to their reign of terror and my family’s souls can sleep soundly. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You can start with those sovereigns you promised on the Chanter’s Board,” Hawke offered helpfully.

Sebastian chuckled. “I suppose I can. Oh, forgive me. I didn’t ask for your name.”

“Hawke,” she said. “And this is Anders.”

Sebastian gave Anders a quick nod, but quickly turned his attention back to Hawke. “Thank you, Hawke. I admit it’s not every day I am helped by someone so beautiful.”

Hawke stared. Beautiful? Her? She was an ass, one who was usually covered in mud and blood (from people she had _murdered_ , no less); her hair was short and greasy and usually messy and more than once in the last week she had used the back of her hand to wipe her nose. And then wiped her hand on her trousers.

Hey, it was practical. And she’d wash the trousers. Eventually.

So. Beautiful? When was the last time someone had called her that? Had her father called her beautiful, once, long ago? Maybe.

It didn’t even strike her as a compliment. It just baffled her.

Anders was quick to respond. “No, it’s not every day, is it?” There was an edge to his words and he took a step closer to Hawke without taking his eyes off of Sebastian. And Hawke realized, suddenly, _why_ he was doing what he was doing, and that, _that_ was a true compliment.

She took a step towards Anders, herself, and Sebastian looked at them and then nodded knowingly. “Ahh. I see.”

Hawke said nothing. She was assuming that Anders would probably rebut that, tell him _no, it’s not like that, she’s just a friend._

But he didn’t.

“Anyways,” said Sebastian. “Let me get you your payment.” He produced a pouch from his outfit and counted out several coins, which he handed to Hawke. She took them and pocketed them and nodded her thanks. Then she turned to leave, but Sebastian called out after her. “Hawke?”

She turned to look back at him.

“Doing what I’ve failed to do for so long… is truly impressive. I wouldn’t be averse to working together again in the future. More formally, perhaps.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Hawke. And she headed for the exit, and Anders was close by her side as she did so.

Then they were out in the courtyard again, and Anders took a breath of fresh air. “Alright, I’m glad we didn’t stay long enough to find the Grand Cleric,” he said. “Is it stifling in there, or is it just me?”

Hawke smiled at him. “You didn’t like our royal friend, did you?”

“I… didn’t talk to him long enough to pass judgment,” said Anders, and he looked away, feigning innocence. Hawke laughed.

They were in good spirits as they walked through Hightown. Anders was jovial and Hawke was, as usual, happy simply to be near him. But then Anders stopped and tensed. He was looking at something. Hawke followed his gaze and saw a templar. He was in the full armor of a Knight-Captain and was talking to a merchant.

Hawke and Anders each had their staff with them, as Hawke had long ago stopped caring whether she was found with it or not. Trying a Knight-Captain, though? It could be trouble. She turned to look back at Anders. “Want go a different way?”

But Anders was still staring at him, his eyes squinted. “I know him,” he said finally.

“What? Has he seen you before?” Hawke was concerned, suddenly. She was a talented enough liar that she could usually pass Anders off as an eccentric but ultimately harmless purveyor of potions when she wanted to, but if this templar already knew who he was…

“Not here,” said Anders. “In Kinloch Hold. In the tower.”

“The tower?” Oh. Oh that was even worse. Thoughts of the scars on Anders’ back came to her mind, as did thoughts of all the promises she made to him—

_I’m going to kill them._

_I’m going to kill everyone who ever hurt you._

Anders was talking again. “His name was Cullen, I think. He didn’t show up until my last few years there. I… think he arrived right before I went into solitary, actually. And he was still there when I came out. He…” Anders’ words trailed off, and his eyes were glassy and his breaths shaky as he looked away. “He might’ve been one of the guards. I don’t know. They took shifts. He might know exactly who I am, because of that.”

If Anders was still talking, Hawke certainly couldn’t hear anymore because her heart was pounding furiously in her ears. She reached for her staff and turned on her heel, and Anders immediately put his hand on her shoulder. Roughly. “Hawke.”

“I’m going to kill him,” said Hawke, and she tried to push her way out of Anders’ grasp.

But Anders put his other hand on her other shoulder and turned her around to face him. “No you’re not.”

“Yes I am,” Hawke nearly roared. “He hurt you and I’m going to kill him, I’m going to—”

“Hawke. You can’t.” Anders was desperate and the whites of his eyes were wide. “Think about it. It’s broad daylight and we are right next door to the Gallows. Even if we survived this, we would be dragged off, both of us would, and what, made Tranquil? It would… it would _kill_ me to see you made Tranquil, Hawke, listen to me, _please_.”

“But I promised!” Hawke was equally desperate. “ _I promised—_ ”

“I know,” said Anders. “But I need you. It’s not just about one templar. Or… or two templars, or twenty. It’s not just about the templars who hurt me. It’s not just about the templars at Kinloch Hold. It’s about all of them.”

“So we start with this one!” Hawke’s face was inches from Anders’.

“No. I won’t lose you to them. I need you. I need you. Hawke, please. I need you by my side. Together, we can take all of them down someday. All of them.”

Anders was breathing heavily, his hands still on Hawke’s shoulders. He was looking deep, deep into her eyes with such unyielding sincerity and intensity that she had to break her gaze and look down. Slowly, carefully, she put her hands up on his chest. She could feel it rising and falling with each frantic breath he took. She shut her eyes. Felt him. Felt the comforting reality of his hands on her shoulders. Felt that desperate heartbeat; a heart that had refused to yield to a templar sword, long ago, and was now refusing to yield to her whims.

Was he right, though?

Before, it had all seemed so simple. Just as she would kill anyone who ever dared hurt her family, she would kill anyone who dared hurt her friends. Templars? They were never a true threat to her, really; dolts to be pushed around and played with unless they actually threatened her or someone she cared about.

Anders was talking about something bigger. Because of course he was.

And for the first time she truly, _truly_ realized what his aims were. He wasn’t just going to free a couple of mages. He wasn’t just going to change Kirkwall.

He was going to change the world.

A dream she had once had swirled into her head; a dream of spirits and justice. _He is right. He is right. He is right._

And who was she to him, even? Just a girl who liked to fool around and flirt and who had even let templars go, in the past, when they hadn’t threatened her specifically. Who was she, to a man who was more than human, a man who was destined to save the world?

She took her own ragged breath and pressed her forehead against his chest. “I promised,” she said softly. “I promised, and I… don’t want that to be empty.”

Slowly Anders moved his arms so they were wrapped around her snugly. “I know,” he said.

“I just wanted to help… and I’m no good at helping except for… except for killing people and I’m not even…” she thought about the templars at the Wounded Coast, years back, when she’d helped apostates flee to a ship. They’d been right there and she’d let them go. Her shoulders slumped. “…I’m… not even… good at killing people sometimes.”

“You are very good at one thing,” said Anders.

Hawke looked up at him. “What?”

Anders looked down at her. “Giving me hope.”

Hawke looked down again, but Anders kept talking. “Until I met you, I didn’t know if I could do any of this. I was going to try, of course. But I… I couldn’t have made it this far.” He gently put a finger underneath Hawke’s chin and tilted her face upward so she was looking into his eyes again. “Not without you believing in me.”

Hawke took a few shaky breaths. Had this been any other time, she might have used this opportunity to touch _his_ face right back. But as it was, she was too much of a wreck to even think of it.

Anders spoke up again. “Stay with me, and help me,” he said. “Okay?”

Hawke swallowed, and nodded. “Okay.”

Anders smiled at her. “He’s gone now, anyway,” he said, nodding in the direction where the templar had been.

“I could’ve killed him,” Hawke mumbled.

“I know,” said Anders with a chuckle. “But we’re going to do this together.”

“When?”

Anders looked away for a moment, off into the distance, mulling something over in his head. And, finally, he seemed to come to a decision. “Right now,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my Salt Squad friends emberkeelty and against_stars for bouncing ideas off of me for this chapter (among others) and in general being enthusiastic about this fic <3
> 
> The next couple chapters should be exciting and then that is going to lead up to a different type of... _excitement_ if you know what I mean. :D Thanks for reading!!


	20. And There's Blood On My Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We must dissent.

Anders didn’t wait another minute. He and Hawke walked briskly through Hightown and then through Lowtown and finally into Darktown. From here, he decided to detour and he showed Hawke a hidden passageway that would get them through quicker and more quietly. It was the middle of the afternoon, and Anders said he wanted to avoid running into anyone who might delay them.

The hidden path led them directly to a back entrance in Anders’ clinic that was so well hidden, behind a dresser, that Hawke hadn’t even known it was there. Carefully Anders pushed the dresser aside and led Hawke inside. The front doors to the clinic were shut and it was quiet. Hawke noticed a dish of milk set out in the corner, and she couldn’t help but smile and think back to when she’d first met Anders, years ago now, and how he’d had milk out for cats then, too. Some things hadn’t changed.

Anders headed straight for his desk and pushed aside the manifesto he was working on as well as some other odds and ends. He gestured to a pile of papers and Hawke leaned over to look. “What is it?” she asked.

“Letters,” said Anders. “From templars to templars. To and from one templar, in particular. Ser Alrik.”

“Ser Alrik?”

Anders nodded. “He is… a sadist. There is no other way around it. He beats people, and he is said to… experiment on mages, by seeing how far he can press them before they fall prey to demons. And he does all this because he finds a twisted, sick pleasure in it.” The fire faded from Anders’ eyes and was replaced with a distant sadness. “And… he is the templar who made Karl tranquil. In fact, I feel he is probably behind the recent spate of new Tranquil that you’ll find in the Gallows.”

“Sounds like he gets off on it,” said Hawke. It was a dark joke, but she was in a dark mood.

“That is… unfortunately not far from the truth.” Anders scratched his neck under his collar uncomfortably. “A tranquil mage, you see, does not have any desire to object to anything that is asked of them. A tranquil mage will do… whatever their superior wants them to do.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. She knew _exactly_ what he was talking about, and it made her feel sick. “Anders, I know I’m supposed to start looking at the bigger picture, but please tell me we can kill this one.”

“The moment we have the chance, we will, I promise you that,” Anders said. “Unfortunately, corruption among templars is not something people seem to care about. Perhaps it’s too… common.” Anders spat that last word out. “Anyway. I’m sure the very best it would get us is empty promises that things will be looked into. It’s just difficult for us to follow up on without hard evidence. But there’s something we _do_ have evidence of. Look.” He picked up one letter and handed it to Hawke. “Read that one.”

Hawke took the letter and quietly read it. She didn’t follow most of it, because it was a clearly a reply to another letter and was referencing things that she didn’t know. But there was one section that she most definitely picked up on, and she read that part aloud. “The mages continue to become difficult to handle. It may be time to introduce our plan to a wider audience. I know it seems like a radical idea, but I’m sure Thedas as a whole will agree that the Tranquil Solution is the safest way to deal with the mage threat.” Hawke looked up. “Tranquil Solution?”

“Mm. Here.” Anders handed her another letter.

Hawke took it and read it. “The Tranquil Solution is a lofty goal, which is why I propose that we start here in Kirkwall and set an example for the other Circles in the Free Marches. Once they see that our mages here are…” Hawke trailed off in disbelief before continuing, “…fully obedient, completely safe and contained, they will realize that following in our footsteps is their best option for true peace.”

“Tell me what that sounds like to you,” said Anders.

“It…” Hawke could hardly believe what she was saying, but it was true; the evidence was all right in front of her. “It sounds like they’re planning on making all mages… Tranquil.”

Anders, who had been standing next to her, began to pace back and forth. “That’s what it’s got to mean. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Some of my associates agree, but others say that no, they wouldn’t do that, they would never try— but… but that’s the thing. They _would_ try. I know it. _You_ know it.” He paused and looked up at Hawke, and his eyes were hopeful. “You… _do_ agree with me?”

Had this been a few years ago, Hawke might not have known what to think. But the words on the letter were plain and everything that she’d learned of templars since then supported it.

If they would flog a child, if they would hunt down a conscripted Warden, if they would put a man in solitary confinement for one year, if they would make a Harrowed mage Tranquil…

…then they had no reason not to make _every_ mage Tranquil.

Tranquil. Obedient. Like a pet.

Hawke was seething as she put the letter back down on the desk. “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “I agree with you.”

Anders let out the breath that he must’ve been holding while waiting for Hawke’s reply. “We can do something about this,” he said. “At least, we can with more evidence. This is a good start, but ultimately it’s still just conjecture. At least, that’s what the Grand Cleric will tell us if we bring it up.”

“The Grand Cleric?”

Anders looked away bitterly. “That’s why I’ve been wanting to talk to her. For years, she has been claiming neutrality as more and more mages are made Tranquil right underneath her nose. People try to talk to her about it and she smiles and spouts nonsense about how ultimately everything that happens is the Maker’s will and it’s not her right to intervene. But… if we can get more proof of this. Actual proof. In writing, that says that the Tranquil Solution is exactly what you and I know it is… then we can show it to her. And ask her if _that_ is the Maker’s will.” Anders was standing very tall and his golden eyes were flashing, and Hawke thought she could detect just a bit of the Fade in them.

Oh, how she loved him in that moment.

“How do we get more evidence?” she asked.

“That’s where I am going to need your help,” said Anders. He walked back over to the desk. “We’ve only been able to get our hands on a few of these letters. It’s… not exactly easy to steal items from a templar’s mailbag. I say we sneak into the Gallows dungeon. From what I understand, Alrik spends a lot of his time down there. If we can find more of his correspondence, we’ll have the evidence we need, and I can take it directly to the Grand Cleric.”

“The Gallows dungeon?”

Anders nodded. “There are old lyrium smuggling tunnels that lead in and out. We’ve used them on occasion.”

“We’ve?”

“The Mage Underground. Kirkwall’s current batch of templars don’t know about the tunnels yet. We’ve successfully kept them hidden, so far. Who knows how long that will last now that they’re cracking down, though.”

“You’ve smuggled mages out through these tunnels?” Hawke asked.

“Some, yes.”

Hawke’s emotions were running circles in her head at all of this information. She was endlessly impressed at what Anders had been doing in his spare time, and at the same time worried for what he might have been getting himself into. Perhaps above all, though, she felt immensely touched that he trusted her enough to tell her all of these details. 

“You’ve been to the Gallows dungeon before, then?”

“I…” Anders looked away and then began to pace again. The air around him was crackling, almost, with nervous energy. “I usually don’t have to go that far— we send messages to the mages and they meet us halfway. But I have been once or twice, yes. It’s… not easy to go, I’ll admit. There are things there that haunt me and remind me of my time spent in the dungeon at Kinloch Hold. But to help a mage in trouble? Or to potentially help many mages in trouble? I’ll go to any lengths for that.”

He was determined as he said that last line, and Hawke knew it, but she also knew there was still vulnerability and fear lurking within. “I’ll be with you this time,” she said. “You won’t have to go alone.”

Anders looked over at her. “I’ve had others accompany me in the past,” he said, “But I’ll admit… I’d rather have you with me than anyone else. I have to ask, though— are you sure you’re up for this? If you’re caught with me, with the Underground, you could lose everything. You’re very, very lucky for an apostate in Kirkwall. You’ve made friends with the Guard-Captain and with the Viscount. It would be… to your advantage to continue to lay low and be happy with what you’ve got.”

“Anders.” Hawke folded her arms and lifted an eyebrow. “Do you really think that I, of all people, would be content to lay low and be happy in a fucking mansion in Hightown? Especially when there are other mages in this city who not only don’t have what I have but are living in a fucking dungeon? And _especially_ when you need my help?”

Anders tilted his head and looked at her with a sort of disbelieving fondness, as though he was looking at something very rare and wonderful, and a tiny smile came to his lips. “I should really stop being surprised by you.”

“You’re not surprised,” said Hawke. “Not really. You know everything about me already. You’re just trying to deny it.”

Now it was Anders’ turn to cross his arms. “Hey now, mind reading isn’t fair!” He smirked at her.

And Hawke smirked back, but then her expression grew serious again. “When did you want to do this?” she asked. “Now?”

“I can show you the entrance now,” said Anders, “But we should probably wait until morning to actually go down there. Early morning. When there will be fewer people around and we have a better chance of success. Oh, and…” he paused, contemplated what he was about to say, then continued, “And if you wanted to invite some people to come with us, just in case— I wouldn’t be averse to that. People we can trust, of course.”

“We can’t just go alone?” Hawke asked.

“When we get to the dungeon proper, you and I can go in alone. In fact, that would probably be best. But I’d prefer if we had bodyguards waiting outside.” He looked over at her with no small amount of concern settled between his brows. “I’m sorry if I’m being overly cautious. But if something were to happen to you, I couldn’t…”

“Nothing will happen to me,” said Hawke firmly. She walked over to where Anders was, stood beside him and looked up into his eyes. What she really wanted, then, was to wrap her arms around him, but she managed to resist that impulse. It was, she thought ruefully, a constant struggle. “I won’t let anything happen to me. I’ll kill anyone who gets close to either of us.”

“Mm.” Anders gave her a small smile. “I know. But humor me, if you would? Just this one time. I don’t like being so close to so many templars. If something happened and they got at you… if they were to make you Tranquil… I could never, ever forgive myself.”

He was too sweet, too endearing, for Hawke to protest any further. “Varric, then,” she said. “And Isabela. If I can get her to actually do something in the morning.”

Anders nodded. “I’ll let you talk to them, then. But for now, I can show you the entrance to the tunnels.”

They left his clinic and Anders led them deep into the bowels of Darktown. Most of the inhabitants were polite to them as they passed, because they recognized and respected Anders, although a few miscreants eyed them hungrily from the shadows. But no one moved against them, and eventually they made it to a particularly dark corner filled with garbage. Anders looked around and made sure no one else was nearby, and then knelt down and cleared away the trash and debris until Hawke could barely make out a trapdoor hidden there in the darkness. “That’s the entrance?” She asked.

“Yes,” Anders replied. “Very few people know of it. Myself, a few associates, and now you.”

Hawke was proud that Anders had come to trust her enough to make her one of such a small number of people who now knew about the backbone of the Mage Underground. And she was proud of Anders, too— proud that he would risk life and comfort to help anyone who needed his help. “Do you want us to meet you here tomorrow?” She asked.

“Meet me at my clinic,” said Anders as he stood back up. “We’ll go together. Mostly I wanted to show you in case… well. You never know when something might happen to me.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” said Hawke firmly. She meant it.

Anders managed a half-smile in the darkness. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning? Before the sun rises?”

“I’ll be here,” Hawke promised.

  


As Hawke had expected, neither Varric nor Isabela was particularly eager to go somewhere with her before the sun was up.

Varric relented soon enough, because he “smelled a story,” as he put it, but Isabela spent several minutes trying to rationalize her way out of it. “What about Merrill?” Isabela asked the question between drinks at the Hanged Man. “Merrill’s a mage… I’m sure she’ll want to do… magey things with you lot.”

“That’s exactly why I _don’t_ want to bring her,” said Hawke. “I don’t want to bring more mages than I have to if there are going to be templars around. I want, you know. Crossbows. And daggers.”

Isabela sighed. “And I suppose I know why you don’t want to bring Fenris or Aveline. Alright, I’ll go. But only because you asked nicely.”

“You’re a true friend,” said Hawke sardonically.

“And you’re going to buy me my next drink,” said Isabela, “To prove just how much you love me.”

  


Varric and Isabela kept their words and showed up at Hawke’s house very, very early the next morning. Almost everyone was still asleep. She did decide to tell Orana— an elven servant she had recently rescued from a grim fate and then hired— that she was going out, and to let Aveline know if she didn’t arrive back home by that evening. Orana eagerly agreed, and then said, “I’ve finished that retailoring job you asked me to do, Messere Hawke. I’ve got it in the upstairs closet, if you’d like to look.”

Hawke had given her the assignment just a few days prior, and was impressed with the young elf’s speed. “Thank you,” she said. She told Isabela and Varric to wait for her and then headed upstairs.

There, in the closet, was an outfit belonging to her father, refitted to fit herself. She had never actually seen her father wear it. He’d always kept on hand, though, and Hawke had asked him about it once when she was young. “It’s a relic from older times,” he’d told her. “It made me look like a mercenary. It was useful for running away from templars. I think it might be a bit lucky.”

“It looks silly,” Hawke had told him. Which was true; it had belts in odd places and a strange spiked shoulder pad with no discernible purpose.

“You won’t mind looking silly when you’ve got templars after you!” Malcolm had replied, and then he turned it into a game and roared and chased tiny Hawke down the hallway until he caught her and tickled her. Hawke smiled at the memory, now, and she took the outfit into her room and changed into it. It fit her perfectly, and something about wearing it felt right, no matter how ridiculous it looked. It was freshly cleaned, too, other than a few dark splotches which Hawke assumed were several-year-old blood stains.

Those seemed appropriate.

The outfit also came with a ring with the Amell family crest on it. Hawke guessed that the ring was probably enchanted, somehow, but it was also bulky on her hands when she wore it, so instead she put it on a chain and hung it around her neck, slipping it underneath her new outfit.

She looked into a mirror, then, and decided that all around she looked snappy. Besides, if it was good enough for her father when he ran away from templars, it would be good enough for her.

Not that she planned on _running away_ from templars, if she could help it.

She reached for her staff, which was kept leaning up against the wall in the corner by her desk. Her father’s staff was in the closet where the outfit had been, but it was always a bit difficult to get used to the idiosyncrasies of a new one and she knew her own like she knew her own body— it was an extension of herself and her willpower. She’d practice with her father’s staff later, but for now, she needed something familiar.

She headed back downstairs, rousing Shadow from his sleep by the fire and telling him to follow as she met up with the others.

“Ooh, fancy new duds,” said Varric.

“ _Very_ nice,” said Isabela, and she raised an eyebrow. “Hoping to impress Anders?”

Hawke gave her a look.

“I’m just saying,” said Isabela.

They headed out.

  


This early in the day even Darktown was quiet, and they made it to the clinic without any sort of confrontation or hassle. Anders was already up and pacing back and forth, a tiger in a cage, and Hawke wondered if he’d even slept. He looked up at Hawke with gratitude, and then smiled when he saw her outfit. “Decided to try something new?” he asked.

“My dad said it was lucky and kept the templars away. I thought I’d try it out.” Hawke couldn’t help but show off just a bit, despite the grim mood in the air. “Do you like it?”

“I like anything that will keep templars away,” said Anders. He looked over at the others and nodded at them. “Thank you for coming. The plan is that Hawke and I will sneak in to the dungeon itself alone, but I’d like you two to stay just outside, just in case.”

“Just point the way, Blondie,” said Varric, and he hoisted his crossbow over his shoulder.

“Before we go, you have to promise to never show anyone this entrance,” said Anders. “Mages’ lives depend on it.”

He was very, very serious as he said it, and between that and Hawke’s death glare, Varric and Isabela quickly agreed. And they all quietly left and slipped through Darktown while everything was still, and Anders led them to the entrance that he’d shown Hawke the previous day. They climbed down into the tunnels one by one, and Anders was the very last and closed it up behind them. He cast a spell once he had, causing the tip of his staff to glow with warm light, and in that light Hawke saw that he was very nervous. Still, he refused to let that deter him and he immediately took the lead and they began their push into the tunnels.

If the smell was any indication, everything down here was slimy and filthy. She avoided the tunnel walls, because she thought if she accidentally brushed against them she’d never be able to get the smell out of her new outfit, and instead she followed close behind Anders. She wondered how many mages Anders had helped smuggle to freedom through this same tunnel. _Not enough_ , she figured he’d probably say, and she smiled to herself at that thought.

Hawke quickly lost track of time and direction as Anders led them down a few side passageways and they pressed further into the dark. No one said anything, perhaps because the atmosphere was too tense. Hawke got the impression that Anders wouldn’t even reply if she tried to speak to him, so thoroughly focused was he on their task. He had to be, she thought. His anxiety would unravel him otherwise.

She let him do what he had to do.

They delved deeper into the tunnels, and Hawke wasn’t thinking about anything in particular when she suddenly saw Shadow pause, his head high and taut, nose in the air.

He’d noticed something.

She stopped immediately and the others did as well. Anders was the last to do so, and he turned to face Hawke, but before he could say anything a woman’s scream cut through the air.

They all looked at each other, eyes wide. “That’s… coming from the direction of the Gallows,” Anders said.

There was another scream followed by angry shouts, and this time Anders ran after it, with Shadow right on his heels and the others scrambling behind as best they could. Hawke didn’t know where they were going, but Anders seemed to know, and she followed until he rounded a corner and came to a skidding halt.

In front of them was a hollowed out clearing in the tunnels. It was still mostly dark, but there were breaks in the ceiling and the first rays of sunlight were just beginning to filter through. They landed on the face of a young woman wearing the robes of a Circle mage, and her face was one of utter terror.

Lurking all around her in the dark shadows were templars.

Hawke couldn’t see exactly how many templars there were in the dim light. One of them had a lantern, and because of that she could make out at least four or five, but she didn’t know if any others were hiding where the light couldn’t reach. The templar in front stepped out into the sunlight, and his features were harsh and pointed.

Next to her, Hawke saw Anders visibly bristle. “That’s Ser Alrik,” he whispered to Hawke. His voice was quavering.

“What should we do?” Hawke whispered back.

Anders looked conflicted. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t want to fight them yet… can you see how many there are?”

Hawke shook her head. They weren’t close enough. That meant the templars hadn’t noticed them yet, but it also meant they didn’t have a good view.

Ahead of them, though, Ser Alrik began to talk, and his voice was loud and haughty and carried through the darkness. “Mm. What’s this that we have here? A naughty mage. Do you know what we do to naughty mages?”

“Please, ser,” the young woman begged. “I just… I just wanted to visit my mother. I was going to come right back.”

“Were you now?” Ser Alrik took a step closer to her, and the woman took a step backward and tripped on a rock and fell.

Hawke felt red hot anger bubbling inside her, but she was distracted by Anders, beside her, suddenly grabbing his head on both sides. “Now now,” he mumbled to himself. “Not now. Not now. Not now.”

“Uhhh… Blondie?” Varric asked.

But Hawke didn’t say anything, because now Alrik was towering over young woman as he said, “Do you know, we have a way of making mages do whatever we want them to? Especially pretty young ones like you.”

“I’ll do anything, ser,” said the girl. “Anything you want.”

“You _will_ ,” said Alrik. “Believe me, once I am done with you, you will.”

Hawke had had more than enough and reached for her staff, but before she could otherwise move the entire room lit up a bright, brilliant blue and Justice was in the middle of the scene, an unstoppable electric storm, beautiful fury and vengeance incarnate, and then Hawke was right by his side and Shadow was there leaping on a templar and Isabela and Varric jumped in behind them. One templar died, and then a second and a third, and the lantern fell to the floor and smashed. The fire in it died and Hawke’s vision became patchwork; here she could see and here he couldn’t, and then someone was on her— Ser Alrik?— and he cast some sort of spell block that sucked all the mana out of her and then he kicked her brusquely and she fell.

Everything that happened next happened in flashes of blue flame and lightning. Justice lifted Alrik off the ground— single-handedly, and by his _throat_ — with seemingly superhuman strength, and Alrik gurgled and struggled, but then Justice spun around and smashed him into the stone wall, head first. There was a sickening crunching noise then, and Hawke flinched despite herself, but she didn’t have time to otherwise react because there were still _more fucking templars_ and she stood herself up and, having regained basic use of spells, burned the closest one to death.

The fight only lasted a few seconds after that. Because then all of the templars were dead and the air was smoky with the smell of singed flesh and Hawke could taste metallic blood on her lips, and in the middle of them all a young woman was crouched on the floor under a beam of light, and standing above her, darting his head back and forth like a hungry bird of prey, was Justice.

“They will all _die_!” Justice boomed. “I will have every last templar for these abuses!”

“Away, demon!” The girl backed away and crouched in a corner.

But Justice was on top of her again in one single bound. “ _I am no demon!_ Are you one of them, that you would call me such?”

And Hawke wasn’t exactly thinking when she did what she did next. “Justice! Wait!” She ran in front of him so she was standing between him and the girl on the floor, and she held her hands up. “Wait!”

“Do _not_ stand in my way!” Justice’s face was up against hers, and his eyes were a burning blue fire the likes of which she had never seen in him before.

“Uhh, Hawke, you might want to listen to him,” Varric suggested.

“He’s just confused!” Hawke replied. “Everything’s scaring him!”

“ _He’s_ the one that’s scared?” That was Isabela. “Just when I thought I’d seen everything.”

Hawke ignored them and turned her attention back to Justice, who was still pulsing fiercely with all the power of the Fade. “Justice,” she said softly. “Do you remember me? Do you remember who I am?”

Justice stared at her. His face was twisted in anger and he was breathing heavily, but finally he said “Hawke.”

“Yes!” said Hawke. “That’s right! I’m Hawke.”

“I thought,” said Justice harshly, “That we had come to an agreement.”

“An agreement?”

“That you would help our cause.”

“Yes… yes.” Hawke nodded. “That’s right.”

“Then you will let me carry out my task.”

“Yes,” said Hawke. “I know. But your task is to kill templars. And we will! We will kill every last one of them, I promise. But this girl is not a templar. She’s a mage. We’re helping her. We’re helping her, Justice.” Hawke took another breath.

Justice said nothing, but the preternatural glow in his eyes was showing no signs of fading. He squinted at Hawke. “And how can I trust her? She did not fight the templars herself. How do I know she has not given in to sloth?”

Hawke kept her voice calm. “She didn’t fight the templars because she couldn’t take all of them on at one time,” Hawke said. But Justice didn’t seem to be convinced, so she decided to try something new. “Justice… bring Anders back to me.”

“I _am_ Anders.”

“Yes. Yes, I know,” said Hawke. “But let him talk to me. I have to say something to him.”

“Say it to me and he will hear.”

Hawke took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She still didn’t know what she was doing. But she was going to fix this. She was going to salvage this. She was going to—

—she opened her eyes again and softly, gently lifted a hand and put it on Justice’s cheek. She could feel the seams in his skin, almost, where the Fade was threatening to burst through. “Anders,” she said softly. “I know you can hear me. Come back to me. It’s alright. It’s okay now. The templars are gone. We’ve killed them. They’re all gone.”

And for several very tense and very long seconds, Justice and Hawke were inches from each other, looking into each others’ eyes. Hawke’s hand was on his cheek, and softly she stroked it with a thumb. “That’s it,” she said softly. “That’s it. It’s okay. Come back to me.”

Several more seconds passed by, and Justice looked deep into Hawke’s eyes, and Hawke looked back, and she didn’t know how to decipher that blue glow, but she would hold her gaze. Hold her gaze until he understood. Until he knew that she was there. That she had him. That she _had_ him—

Justice’s blue glow faded away all at once, and Hawke was left holding her hand up to Anders’ cheek in the shafts of morning sunlight.

“Hawke?” Anders gasped at her.

“Anders?” Hawke asked.

Anders noticed Hawke’s hand on his face, then, and he recoiled in horror. “Hawke… I… Maker… I almost… if… if you hadn’t been here…” he turned and saw the girl cowering on the floor, gaping at him in terror, and he slowly shook his head in denial and backed away, trembling, eyes wide with fear.

“Anders—” Hawke began.

Anders didn’t look at her. “I… I have to go.”

“Anders, wait!”

“No, I have to get out of here!” Anders was panicked and he roughly shoved his way past Hawke and disappeared into the darkness of tunnel.

Hawke looked down at the ground and sighed.

Behind her, the girl stood and approached her. “Thank you for saving me from those templars, serah,” she said, and she curtsied hastily. “If… if I may ask… what… was that thing that you were talking to? Is it a demon?”

Hawke shook her head. “No. He’s my friend.” She looked at the girl. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Ella, serah.”

“Were you trying to escape?”

“Sort of… I just wanted to see my mother.” Ella looked away. “Then I was going to go right back. I promise.”

Hawke smiled at her. “Do you have somewhere you can go? That’s far from here? Somewhere safe?”

“I… think so. I have family. Outside of Kirkwall.” Ella looked back up at her. “Do you think I should go there?”

Hawke nodded. “Yes. And don’t look back.”

“I… Alright,” said Ella. “I will. Thank you, serah…”

“Hawke.”

“Serah Hawke.” Ella curtsied again, and then disappeared down the tunnel.

Hawke watched her go, and then turned and surveyed the carnage. Ser Alrik’s head was so misshapen she didn’t know if he was even recognizable anymore. _Good_ , she thought.

Then she saw something on the ground next to his corpse.

Papers.

Letters.

_Evidence._

She walked over and bent down and picked them up. She scanned them, briefly, and then pocketed them. She turned back to where the others were waiting. “Let’s get out of this fucking place,” she said.

“That might be the most sensible thing you’ve said in a while, Chuckles,” said Varric.

“I told you bad things happen when you try to do things in the morning,” said Isabela.

But Hawke was quiet, because all she could think about was Anders and how distraught he’d been. He’d run from her. She’d touched him, and he’d run from her.

Well.

Wherever he was going, she’d find him.

She always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank you to my ever growing list of beta readers for going over this chapter for me before I uploaded it, haha. (against_stars, emberkeelty, and misteradequate)
> 
> And another special thank you to everyone who has read and commented on this fic or messaged me on tumblr about it! Every nice comment inspires me to continue to write Anders Was Right And Is Happy fics for you all forever! <3


	21. Love Is Our Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dam breaks.

Hawke and the others managed to backtrack and stumble their way out of the tunnels eventually, thanks largely to Shadow’s keen nose. Upon emerging back in Darktown, Hawke made sure that the trapdoor was hidden to the best of her ability and then asked if her friends could do her a huge favor and take the dog back home for her. They agreed, and she thanked them and then went straight to Anders’ clinic.

It was well into the morning by the time she got there and several people were lined up outside. One of them turned to face Hawke as she approached. “Where’s the healer? Are you here for him too?”

Hawke ignored her and went right to the clinic’s doors. They were shut. She tried to open them; they were locked. “Anders?” No response.

She put her ear up against the door and listened. She wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought she could pick out movement inside. “Anders?” She called again. There was still no response, but this time she definitely heard rustling sounds from within the building.

The people waiting outside were looking at her curiously now, as though she was their one hope for getting them inside. Unfortunately, that probably wasn’t going to happen— not the way they thought it was, at least.

She turned and left. She had a different plan.

When Hawke came back to the clinic a few moments later it was from the back entrance. She still remembered how to access Anders’ secret passageway and she decided that checking on him and making sure he was okay was a valid use of it.

She moved the dresser aside like he’d shown her and entered his clinic, and found him crouched down in the far corner, doing… something. She couldn’t tell what.

“Anders?” She walked over to him.

He didn’t acknowledge her presence. He was mumbling to himself, and as she got closer she could make out individual words. “Trash… trash… trash… keep… trash…”

“Anders,” Hawke said softly. He was good at taking his name and holding on to it like a lifeline whenever it spilled from her lips. _Take it now_ , she thought. _Please._

“Won’t be needing that anymore,” Anders mumbled. He was still ignoring her as he sorted his possessions into neat little piles.

“Throwing things out isn’t going to make you feel better, you know,” said Hawke.

“ _Should_ I feel better?” His words were bitter and he was still squatting on the floor and wasn’t looking at her, but Hawke was glad that at least she had gotten through to him somehow. That was an encouraging sign, at least. “If you hadn’t been there, I would’ve killed an innocent girl. You know… like the abomination I am. Just another… just another monster. Proving the fucking templars right.”

“The fact that you _didn’t_ kill that girl proves the templars wrong,” said Hawke. But Anders said nothing and continued to look down at the floor. “Anders,” said Hawke softly. “Look at me.”

He didn’t, at first, but finally he turned his head to look up at Hawke. He was a vulnerable, wounded bird then, his wings clipped, his spirits dampened— but not extinguished, no, never extinguished. His amber eyes were sharp, almost glaring, as he looked at her. He was trying to distance himself from his emotions, it occurred to her. And that hurt a bit, because she thought his emotions were perhaps one of the most beautiful things about him. 

“You didn’t kill her,” said Hawke. “Do you know why? Because you’re a good person. And there are going to be days that are hard, alright? But that’s okay, because I’ll help you. We’ll get through it together.”

Anders looked away again. He was still sitting on the floor. “You have too much faith in me,” he said softly. “I don’t know anymore, you know. I wanted to be an example for why mages aren’t something to be feared… but… if _I’m_ something to be feared… then I guess I’m not a very good example, am I?”

“I don’t know,” said Hawke. “I think you’re a pretty good example of mages using their talent to do wonderful, amazing things. Like heal people. For free. Every single day. Speaking of which, you’ve got a big line of people outside. Seems you’re popular or something.”

From her position, Hawke saw Anders smirk. Just a bit. But then he was serious again. “Can I even trust myself to heal anymore? What if what happened just now happens again?”

“Well, you see, there’s an easy answer for that.” Hawke pushed herself on top of Anders’ desk so she was sitting on it, her legs hanging over the edge. “You’ll just have to take me with you everywhere you go from now on. What a shame, right?”

Anders finally stood and turned to face her. “I’ll be honest. I was going to leave Kirkwall. That’s what I was planning for when you found me. But if you truly think I can still pull this off…”

“Leaving Kirkwall isn’t going to solve any of your problems,” said Hawke. “Although on the other hand, it does come with the tantalizing bonus that you won’t be in Kirkwall anymore. So I mean, I can’t blame you for being tempted by the idea, really.”

Anders looked at her oddly. “How do you do that, Hawke?” he asked, and he sounded mystified.

“Do what?”

“Always cheer me up somehow.” Anders smiled at her. It was genuine. 

Hawke smiled back, but then cleared her throat. “Anyways. I got some papers off of Ser Alrik.”

“You did?” Anders took a few steps towards her. “Can I see them?”

Hawke reached into her pocket and handed the papers over to Anders, who took them and scanned them. When he spoke, there was shock in his voice. “But… this says… the Grand Cleric rejected the idea. The Knight-Commander rejected the idea.”

“Yep,” said Hawke. “Which buys us more time. I don’t know _how_ much more time, exactly, but at least Alrik’s gone, now, and the Grand Cleric can go back to being, you know— obnoxiously neutral.”

Anders looked over at her, and there was surprise in his eyes. “You still want to work with me on this project? Even though the Tranquil Solution is no longer a threat?”

“I made you a promise,” said Hawke. “I said I was going to help you. I’m not going to abandon you just because one of your leads didn’t turn out to be what we thought it would be. I just… I just want…” She sighed and looked away. “I don’t want any more mage kids growing up feeling ashamed. That’s… that’s really fucked you and I up, hasn’t it? And… and it fucked Bethany up, and shit, it even fucked Carver up because he had to be on the lookout for us all the time. That’s not right. That’s not right, and if you’ve got a plan to stop it, then I’m in.”

“Until the end?”

“Until the end.”

Anders was giving her that _look_ again; the one he gave her sometimes as though he wasn’t sure if she was real or some sort of clever illusion that might shimmer and fade away before his eyes. “Hawke,” he said, and there was something in his voice. Some sort of timbre Hawke had never heard there before.

“Anders?” she asked him.

“I…” Anders looked uncomfortable. There was a flush in his cheeks. “I’ve been meaning to thank you,” he said finally. “Someone with your status, doing what you’re doing here in the city… it’s done a lot for mages, and… I just…”

“Anders,” said Hawke again. There was something _else_ there, and she knew it. Slowly she slid off of the desk and approached him.

Anders took a step back, but not out of anxiety. He was blushing. “Hawke I… you know, I uh…” he looked the other way. “I… Andraste’s knickers.” There it was in his voice again; he was breathless.

“Andraste’s knickers?” Hawke giggled a bit as she said it, and she smiled and took another step towards him.

“You know, I just wanted to tell you,” and the words were spilling from his mouth now, although he was still refusing to look at her, “That um, I appreciated what you did earlier and I… you know if I hadn’t… made such a mess of it when you… when you…”

“When I what?” Hawke was very close to him. Anders had stopped backing up, but he was looking very intently at some spot on the ground. His ears were bright red.

“When you…” Anders shut his eyes. “I… felt it, you know? When Justice was talking to you and you… you put…”

“My hand?” Hawke asked.

Anders was stumbling over his words as though he was trying to get them out of the way before they caused any more trouble. He opened his eyes again, although he was still staring at the floor. “Yes, and that was what pulled me back, I felt you, and… of course then I made a mess of it and…”

“We can try again, if you’d like,” said Hawke.

And _then_ Anders snapped his head over towards her and looked right at her. “What?”

“Like this,” said Hawke, and slowly, ever so slowly, she held up her hand and rested it on his cheek.

He stared at her, eyes wide, but didn’t move or say anything. He was breathing quickly. “Hawke?” he managed to say, finally, and there was a _longing_ there as he looked deeply into her eyes.

_The universe is in them._

“It’s alright,” Hawke whispered, and she curled her hand just so, so that her fingernails were resting gently on his cheek.

Anders closed his eyes. “Hawke,” he whispered. And he turned his head, just an inch.

And kissed her knuckles.

“I need you,” he breathed into her fingers. He lifted a hand and put it atop hers.

“I know,” she said. And she knew, she knew _exactly_ how he needed her. Not just physically. No, it was so much more than that. He needed her like fire needed air, like thunder needed lightning, like justice needed a cause.

She knew, because she needed him too.

Hawke lifted her other hand and gently put it on the back of his head, her fingers threading through his golden hair. Anders’ eyes were still closed as he breathed heavily into the hand on his cheek. “I can’t promise you anything,” he murmured. He was stroking her hand with trembling fingers. “You saw what I almost did to that girl. You’ve seen what I am… I… I can’t be what you want me to be.”

“I know who you are,” said Hawke. Her hand was thoroughly intertwined with his hair. “And you are exactly who I want you to be.”

Then Anders stumbled forward and took her head in his hands and his mouth was on hers and everything was in that kiss, all his passion and zeal was in that kiss, every storm and every star that lit him up was in that kiss, and Hawke responded eagerly, encouraging him, and oh he was a hurricane that likely would have shoved her up against the wall if she wasn’t the rock that his waves broke against. They pulled apart, briefly, and looked each other in the eyes and saw _adoration_ there, and then they kissed again and Hawke felt like she was propping him up, almost, because he was putting his whole self into that kiss and _giving_ everything he had to her; all his strength and his fervor and his fire was _hers_ until he had nothing else left inside himself to give and that’s when he clung to her and she held him, keeping him upright, keeping him safe.

He pulled away again and pressed his forehead to hers. He was out of breath as he looked into her eyes. Hawke looked right back into his, and gave him a cheeky half-smile. “Have you wanted to do that as long as I have?”

“I don’t know,” said Anders. “Have you wanted to do that for three years?”

“Something like that,” said Hawke.

Anders laughed and it was musical and light and it was _hers_ , his laugh and his smile were _hers_ and she would set the entire damn world on fire to keep those things safe. He reached up with a hand, touched her cheek. “This could all end in disaster but I… I can’t live without you. We could die tomorrow, and I didn’t want that to happen without telling you how I feel.” He tilted his head, never taking his eyes off hers. “I don’t know what you see in me.”

“Myself,” Hawke replied immediately.

“Is that supposed to be dirty?” Anders smirked.

“If you want it to be,” said Hawke.

Anders laughed again, and Hawke thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world. She reached up and took his head in her hands, tenderly smoothing his hair back. “I haven’t felt this way before,” she said. “About anyone. Just you.”

Anders looked as though if he beamed any more than he already was, he might become some sort of actual luminescent being. But he grew serious as he said, “I feel I should warn you. If you’re with me, we’ll be hunted. Hated. The whole world will be against us.”

“What’s the whole world got on us?” Hawke said. She smiled and ran his fingers through his hair, again, _Maker it was so nice to touch him like this_ , and he took one of her hands in his and kissed it. She responded by pressing herself into him and burying her nose into his neck and kissing him right there, then kissing him up his chin and onto his cheek, exploring him with her lips, and Anders shuddered as he held her and kissed her behind her ear and then nibbled on her earlobe, and before Hawke really knew what she was doing her hands were up on his chest, fumbling blindly with the straps that wrapped around his middle, but then Anders reached up and gently grabbed her wrist. “Anders…” she mumbled into his neck between kisses.

He pulled away and looked down at her with a wry, crooked smile. “Hawke,” he chastised teasingly.

“Bastard.” And Hawke reached for his robe with her other hand, but Anders caught that one too.

“Hawke.” He pushed his head against hers, so his lips were close to her ear again. “I have patients.”

“They’re outside. And the doors are locked.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the walls aren’t exactly… soundproof.” Anders said that into her ear with a bit of a growl in his voice, and he was doing it _on purpose_ and it was _working damn him_ and Hawke quivered.

“Tonight, then,” she said. “At my place.”

Anders was smiling, but Hawke could hear the nervousness in his voice as he said “You’re sure? If you change your mind…”

“I waited three fucking years for you to kiss me, I’m not going to change my mind,” said Hawke. She broke her hands free from Anders’ grasp on them and slipped them into the spaces in the front of his coat, so the only thing between her arms and his skin was a thin shirt, and she pushed herself into his chest, right up against his heart, and he wrapped his arms around her waist and they held each other in warm, comfortable silence for one long and dreamlike moment.

Finally he pressed his lips to the top of her scalp and kissed her there once, twice, three times. “Tonight,” he promised. “But for now… I should open the clinic. Before there’s a riot outside.”

Reluctantly Hawke pulled her arms from his coat and stepped away from him. She couldn’t stop smiling at him, though. Ever the tireless healer. How she was proud. “Go get ‘em, tiger,” she said.

And he smirked, and there was actually a bit of a swagger in his walk as he went to open the doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Decided to just upload this as is. Short and sweet. <3 Thanks for sticking with me up until this point!
> 
> Next chapter is gonna be, uh, NSFW.


	22. Devil's Backbone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke takes Anders to bed and they are blissfully happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't _super_ explicit, but it is still explicit, so if you'd rather not read it feel free to skip it.

Hawke felt thoroughly invincible.

Even moreso than she usually did, which was impressive.

She went home quickly to bathe templar blood off of herself, and then she strolled through Kirkwall and spent extra money on things. She bought fancy food for lunch and some trinkets for her mother. She had her staff with her and didn’t give a shit. And if anyone had any problems? Well, they could take it up with her and her apostate boyfriend who she was seeing and who was hers oh and did she mention that they were together now?

Yes, yes they were definitely together now.

She was walking on clouds.

As the morning melted into the afternoon Hawke got increasingly restless. She resisted the growing urge to return to Darktown and sneak into Anders’ clinic and surprise him and shove him up against the wall and kiss him until he forgot his work and it was just the two of them.

_No. No. Bad Hawke. His work is important._

It was a nice fantasy, nonetheless.

Still, she was terribly antsy. All of her friends seemed to be busy, so wasting time with them at the Hanged Man was out. She sort of wanted to kill something, and she was certain that if she looked hard enough there would be bandits to clear out, but then it would be messy and she’d get covered in blood and she’d have to take another bath and it was just so much _effort_.

Dinnertime arrived, and Hawke began to wonder exactly when, that evening, Anders would be arriving. Should she have dinner ready for them both? She guessed he would probably still be working, though— he usually did work as late as possible, the silly, dear man— so she just had it herself, and then she waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

She heard a noise and turned, startled, to see Shadow rolling over and landing on his other side with a thump. He looked over at Hawke apologetically, his tongue hanging out of his broad smile. Hawke sighed at him affectionately.

Leandra saw her pacing about at some point and asked if she was expecting someone. Hawke said yes, she was, and Leandra smiled and told her to enjoy herself and then retired to her room. Everyone else soon retired as well, and then Hawke was left staring at the fireplace, wondering if Anders actually _would_ come. What if he changed his mind at the last minute? What if he was too nervous about it all? What if…

The door clicked.

Hawke turned, and Anders walked in. His face lit up when he saw her, but Hawke could see the nervousness in his eyes. He was wearing the same old feathery coat he always did, although Hawke had come to love it just as she loved every bit of him. He paused a few paces from her and offered an anxious smile. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Hawke smiled back.

“Sorry if I was late,” Anders said. “I uh… you know how it is. Being busy and all.” He laughed anxiously, and reached up with an arm to scratch his neck.

“You know, if you hadn’t come, I’d be out looking for you,” said Hawke. She was trying to help him relax a little, but she also meant it.

Anders took a step closer, but he was looking sort of sideways and down at the floor. “I apologize if I seem uncertain at all. You have to understand… in the Circle… love was only a game. It wasn’t something you could have, ever. Even Karl and I… it was only quick, in corners or closets, and it was never…” He took a ragged breath. “It was never _official_. It gave the templars too much power if there was something you couldn’t stand to lose.”

“You’re not going to lose me.” Now it was Hawke’s turn to step forward. “I’ll kill every last fucking templar who tries to take me from you.”

Anders looked over at her. They were very close, and in the dim light of the fireplace Hawke could see the endless depths of affection in his golden eyes. “No one’s ever promised me that before,” he said softly.

“I know,” said Hawke, and her voice now was as soft as it had been hard just seconds before. “But I mean it.”

Anders lifted a hand, slowly, and there were wisps of warm, gentle healing magic emanating from it as he placed it on Hawke’s cheek. “No mage I know has dared fall in love,” he said. “This will be the rule I most cherish breaking.”

If their first kiss was a firestorm, their second was the warm, familiar glow of sunlight filtered through a window. It was gentle and soft, and they took their time, treating the other as a rare treasure to be carefully kept. Anders’ hand was on her face, cradling her with tender magic, giving her that secret part of himself that defined him and made him who he was but that he normally had to keep hidden away, and Hawke’s arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him close, and for many long seconds they tasted and cherished each other. Anders pulled away at one point to kiss her forehead— his hands on her sides, never letting go of her— and Hawke moved her own hands and pushed them up against his chest so Anders could wrap his arms around her more fully, and as he moved in to kiss her again she let herself be vulnerable. She let her guard down for the first time in months, _years_ , and gave herself to him fully. He held her protectively, shielding her from the world, and she let him.

“I need you,” he murmured to her between kisses.

“You have me,” Hawke whispered back.

“I thought…” Anders tilted his head so his lips were no longer on hers, but were on her cheek instead. “I thought with Justice, this part of me was over. But I need you. I need you, Hawke.”

“Shh. I know.” Hawke reached up and took his face in her hands, and they kissed again. She knew he was worried, and he had every right to be, because never before had he been able to _have_ someone like this. But she wanted him to know that they had each other now and no force would ever part them. She’d make sure of that.

They broke the kiss eventually, still looking at each other with no small amount of wonder and fondness, and Hawke reached out and took Anders’ hand in hers. She led him upstairs, to her room, and from there to the bed. She laid back and Anders fell atop her, and they had each others’ faces in their hands again almost immediately as they kissed again and then Hawke kissed her way down his neck, burying her nose somewhere beneath his green and gold collar. He smelled like lavender soap. “You took a bath,” she said, smiling into his neck.

“Even men who live in the sewers need to make themselves presentable every once in a while,” said Anders. His voice was light and airy and _happy_ and he pressed himself into her and Hawke wrapped her arms around him tightly. She thought, maybe, if she pulled him against her hard enough, she could press him into her heart and keep him there, tucked away inside her, safe from everything else.

“So you took a bath and changed right back into that coat,” she chuckled. She pressed her cheek against Anders’ and closed her eyes in blissful contentment.

“Well, I figured you might not recognize me if I wore something else,” said Anders. His eyes were also closed as he pressed himself against her, and Hawke felt his words almost more than she heard them. “…that, and it’s my only real outfit.”

“Oh, it’s not _what_ you wear,” said Hawke. “It’s how you wear it. By which I mean, the feathers look great on you, but they’d look…”

“…better on your bedroom floor?” Anders cut in and finished for her before turning his head, just a bit, to kiss her cheek.

They both laughed, which turned into another happy kiss, and _Maker_ , Hawke thought, _please don’t take this man from me, I need him too damn much_. The fact that she finally had him on her bed, which she had previously used to fantasize about various lurid activities with him, hardly even crossed her mind because all she cared about was feeling him, hearing him, breathing him in. Having him. She thought, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she could die now and her life would have been entirely worth it.

She ran her fingers through his hair and tugged the tie out of his ponytail, tossing it aside and letting those golden strands fall in front of his face. They framed him— and her, since he was kissing her again, and his hair was falling all around her, and some point soon after that they rolled over so she was on top of him, pinning him down. Now, _now_ she decided to have some fun, and she ran a finger down his chin to the straps on his coat and started unbuckling them.

“Oh, that’s no fair,” Anders suddenly protested playfully.

“What’s no fair?” Hawke was still unbuckling his coat.

“That you get to go first,” Anders said. “You do realize I’ve had this all planned out?”

That gave Hawke pause. She leaned forward so her hands were on his chest, her face hovering just over his. “Have you?”

“What else is a man to do,” Anders said coyly, “When he aches for someone every night for three years?”

He was using _that_ tone of voice again and Hawke thought it wasn’t fair, but she also wasn’t going to complain about it. “Are you going to give me details?” she asked him.

“I could. Or I could give you a proper hands-on demonstration.”

Hawke leaned back and gave him a knowing grin. “Alright. Show me,” she said.

Anders gave her that cheeky half-smile that she loved so much and he reached up and pulled her into a kiss, and he pulled her down so she was the one on the bed again and then before she really knew quite what was going on, his hand traveled down her thigh, and then he sneaked it into her house robes, and then into her smallclothes, and then—

“Mmmrff.” Hawke pushed her head back into the pillow.

Anders followed her, pressing his face into her neck. He kissed her there, while his fingers remained quite occupied further south. Hawke made a few mewls of pleasure as Anders gently bit her neck, and then he nipped her ear. “You’re wonderful,” he murmured.

He wasn’t letting up with his hand, and Hawke was gasping and quivering and she thought she might have even breathed out his name but then he stopped, suddenly, and sat up and pulled his hand away, and then tilted his head as he looked down at Hawke with a smile.

Hawke was breathing heavily as she looked up at him. “Maker’s socks, where did you get such clever fingers?”

“Practice.” Anders said it innocently.

“On who?” Hawke teased him.

“Myself. It’s really the same basic principle, you know.”

The man was an insufferable cad and a rascal and Hawke loved him, and she started to sit up so she could kiss him but gently he pushed her back down. “Uh-uh. I’m not finished.” He looked down at her, and his hair was loose and messy and the buckles on his coat were half undone and his feathers were sticking up everywhere and he was framed by the light from the fireplace and Hawke didn’t know if he’d looked any more handsome than he did at that moment as he smiled down at her. Then he was down atop her again, but this time, after kissing her once, he scooted himself down so he was positioned lower on her and there he began to kiss her thighs and _ohhh_ Hawke suddenly knew what he was doing.

“Anders,” she said.

“Mmm?” Anders gently pressed his nose into her smallclothes.

Hawke resorted to pleading. “Anders, I swear to the fucking Maker…”

And Anders smiled and slid off the bed, and Hawke repositioned herself without any prompting because _Maker_ if she didn’t want this and he kissed the inside of her thighs again as he gently tugged her smalls down and then his lips and tongue were on her and Hawke let out a cry as she shut her eyes tight and reached down and entangled Anders’ hair in her fingers, and he wrapped his arms around her legs and gently licked her.

Hawke whimpered and leaned her head back into the pillow as her body tumbled into a mess of sensations. Anders was _talented_ , knowing exactly how and where to use his tongue for maximum effect. He was also clearly thoroughly enjoying himself which just made it all the more arousing, and Hawke lasted what she thought was only an embarrassingly short time before he hit a sweet spot that tipped her over the edge and she writhed and cried out his name; and Anders didn’t let up until he was certain she was done, at which point he went back to kissing her thighs. Then he slowly climbed back onto the bed and propped himself up next to her, on his side, and gazed at her with loving eyes. “Not even three years of fantasies could match that just now.”

“Flatterer.” Hawke felt thoroughly content. Lazily she reached out a hand to him.

Anders took it and kissed it. “Not at all. I’ve thought of tasting you and hearing you like that for months.” He kissed her hand again. “I feel I should be thanking you. This is all new to me, you know? Being here, I mean. In a real bed. In a real bedroom. With someone I care about.”

“You… think you should be thanking me? After what you just did? Anders.” Hawke sat up, and Anders did too, and she took his hands in hers. “You don’t have to thank me. I want you here.”

“I know you do,” said Anders. “Believe me, I do. But it’s difficult to believe that, sometimes. For so long, I told myself I couldn’t have you. That you wouldn’t want me, of course you wouldn’t want me. And then when I realized you _did_ … well, then I wanted to save you from myself.”

“Ah, yes, the sweet and gentle healer, how terrifying.” Hawke smiled at him.

“You know what I mean,” Anders smiled back.

Hawke leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Justice talked to me, you know. About you. And how you felt about me.”

“I know. He told me about it later.” Anders pressed his forehead to Hawke’s. “I have never met anyone quite like you. I didn’t think I would ever, ever find anyone who could not only look past what I am, but see something in that. Someone who believes in what I believe in, and sees it as something that they’d want to be a part of.” He was looking down at his hands; Hawke was holding them like she would never let go.

Hawke was looking at his face. She wanted to respond, to tell him something, but she didn’t know what she could even say to him. She wasn’t sure how to express what she wanted to express.

Not in words, anyway.

Because how was she supposed to tell him, with words alone, what he’d meant to her? That he’d given her hope in her darkest hours? That he’d made her smile and laugh even in the horrible mess that was Kirkwall? That he’d given her something to believe in? Made her realize that being a mage was more than just an unfortunate curse? And not only that, but made her think that maybe there was actually something she could do about it? That was something that hadn’t even seemed like a possibility before she’d met him.

She didn’t know how to say all of this, though, so instead of saying anything she kissed him, and he kissed her back passionately— they were each other’s air, and soon enough they were reaching for each other and Anders gently pushed Hawke’s robes off and Hawke finished unbuckling Anders’ coat for him just before he shed it and tossed it to the floor. He was wearing a plain shirt and trousers underneath, and he pulled the shirt off over his head in one fluid motion and threw that to the floor as well, and that’s when Hawke pushed him down so he was on his back on the bed. She held herself above him, both of them staring into each other’s eyes and breathing heavily. Hawke was in charge, now, and she scanned him with her eyes and noted with no small amount of satisfaction that something in Anders’ trousers— which was the only real remaining piece of clothing between them— was _quite_ happy to see her.

She was going to take her time with him, of course.

Hawke reached out with a lazy finger and traced that scar above his heart. She remembered years back in the Deep Roads when he’d first shown her that intimate part of himself, and how badly she’d wanted to reach out and actually _feel_ that proof that he was somehow more than human. Now she could, and Anders closed his eyes and relaxed and let her explore him with a sort of soft, reverent wonder. She dipped her head down, eventually, and kissed that scar. “I don’t know if that was Justice protecting you,” she said then.

“Oh?” Anders opened his eyes.

“I just don’t think your heart can be harmed. It’s too big. There’s too much love inside it.” She kissed the scar once more and then kissed her way down his chest and stomach.

Anders shuddered at the touch of her lips. “Hawke,” he whimpered.

She was down at his waist and slowly she pulled his trousers down, and then his smallclothes. Then she took him in her hand and gently stroked him a few times, and he moaned and grabbed at the bedsheets, and Maker if she didn’t already need him, those desperate noises he made absolutely sealed the deal. She needed to see his face, though, and she climbed atop him and positioned so her face was close to his. The gold in his eyes, glittering in the firelight, held in them equal parts of want and affection, and Hawke reached out with a hand to touch his cheek gently. “Anders,” she said softly. “Do you trust me?” He had never been quite in this situation before. She wanted to know how he felt about it.

“More than anything,” Anders replied without skipping a beat.

“Is there any particular way you want to do this?” Hawke asked.

“All I need is you.” He was very sincere when he said it, and Hawke pressed her lips to his and they kissed, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her body flush against his, and they kissed some more before maneuvering themselves around so he was on top, at which point he looked at her with some concern. “Is this alright?”

“However you want to do it,” said Hawke. She was determined to make him feel safe. She didn’t know if he’d ever felt safe when he was with someone before. There must’ve always been templars lurking around corners when he was in the Circle— or, when he was on the run, the thought of them on the chase hanging over his head. Something else did occur to her, though, and much as she hated to break the mood, she figured it should be brought up. “Should we…” she cleared her throat. “I mean. I take some herbs. But.”

“Oh, right.” Anders laughed lightly, but it was tinged with some sadness. “I… don’t think we have to worry about that,” he said. “Grey Wardens are sterile.”

“They are?” Hawke hadn’t known that.

“That’s the rumor, anyway, and I haven’t seen anything to prove it wrong. Another fun side effect of the Taint.” Anders tilted his head. “Does that… bother you?”

Hawke found it a bit of an odd question, at first, before realizing that what he was truly asking wasn’t about something between them _now_ , but about something that might affect them in the _future_. And it gave her a bit of a thrill that he was thinking of them, _together_ , months or perhaps years later. As for the subject of the question itself… “Only if it bothers you,” she said, which was truthful. She had never put much thought into having a family, herself. It was something she could take or leave. And in the current climate of things, she’d probably prefer to leave it.

Anders smiled. “It might have, in the past,” he admitted. “But now? After the things I’ve seen? There are children being abused in Circles all over Thedas. I can’t bring more into the world. Not when there’s still work to do.”

Hawke smiled back. Even here, safe and intimate with her, he was still Anders and Justice beneath it all, and she loved him for it, and she reached up and pulled him down to meet her lips.

They forgot the world, then, as they kissed and Anders pressed himself inside her and Hawke clung to his shoulders and finally they had each other and nothing but each other. Anders was as careful and attentive as he was eager, and all Hawke really wanted to do was hold him tight and keep him safe, so that’s what she did. Her fingers felt the many criss-crossed scars on his back as she held him, a permanent reminder of all the abuse and injustices that he had survived, and they inspired her to do better, to help him make the world a safer place for all its inhabitants, for never again did she want someone to have to feel their lover’s back battered and scarred by forces beyond their control.

“Anders,” she gasped out suddenly.

“Hawke,” he breathed into her ear in response.

“I won’t— I won’t ever let anyone hurt you. Ever again.” Hawke dug her nails into him.

“Hawke—” he moaned again.

And that’s when she realized that she had one more thing to give him. One more part of herself that she kept carefully hidden away from the world. “Marian,” she whispered to him.

Anders looked at her suddenly. “What?”

“Marian Hawke.” She took his head in her hands, tenderly pushed a few strands of hair behind his ear. “Don’t tell anyone else.”

He smiled at her. “Marian,” he repeated, and he said it with such love in his voice that Hawke was immediately convinced that her decision was the right one.

She took one of his hands in one of hers, and she held it tightly as they rocked together and gasped each others’ names into their ears, and Hawke actually climaxed first, her head tilted back as Anders bit into her neck and she screamed obscenities at the ceiling. Anders not only knew exactly what he was doing and how to do it, but it seemed that the oft bandied about rumors about Grey Warden “stamina” were actually true— at least, that’s what Hawke couldn’t help but think, once colors returned to her vision and she could actually think again.

But Anders followed close behind— “Maker, Marian… oh, Maker!” he’d cried before he’d lost his ability to speak completely— and then they collapsed in each others’ arms, feeling utterly sated and content, and once they could move again Anders rolled onto his back and Hawke snuggled herself into the crook of his arm, one hand up on his chest, and Anders put his hand on top of hers, and there they stayed, in quiet, delirious happiness.

Finally, after several warm minutes of simple togetherness, Anders moved himself a bit so he could kiss Hawke’s forehead. “I love you,” he said. And although Hawke had known it all along, she still couldn’t help but feel wobbly inside as he continued, “I’ve been holding back from saying that. You should have a normal life. Not be tied down to a fugitive with no future.”

Hawke might have retorted that her life was not and never could be _normal_ , but as it was, she was still very much stuck on the “I love you” bit. She wondered, suddenly, when the last time was that someone had told him that they loved him. Had he and Karl ever told each other? She had no doubt that what they’d felt for each other was love, but from what she understood, even saying it aloud would be dangerous. And if Karl hadn’t been the last person to tell him, years and years ago, then who had been? His parents, perhaps, before he was taken away to the Circle?

How many years? How many decades?

Hawke tilted her head up so she was looking into Anders’ eyes. “I love you,” she said. Always had. She’d loved him from the moment he whirled on her in his clinic, the Fade in his eyes, willing to protect his patients— Darktown’s downtrodden— no matter the cost. She’d loved him when he talked about his cat. Loved him when he’d healed her, when he’d followed her into the darkness of the Deep Roads, when he’d held her as she cried, when he’d become the human embodiment of _justice_ and as he became slightly more so with every passing day.

“Do you mean that?” Anders’ eyes brimmed with hope and awe. “You’d tell the world, the Knight-Commander even, that you love the most infamous apostate in southern Thedas? That you’ll stand by him, no matter what?”

“I’d climb onto the Gallows roof and yell it for the world to hear and dare the templars to try to do a fucking thing about it,” Hawke replied, and her voice was light but firm. Because she meant it.

Anders wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “Maybe don’t do that, exactly,” he murmured into her. “I’ve got enough of them snooping around my place as is.”

“Well, too bad for them this is your place now, so they’ll have to go through me,” said Hawke.

“What?”

“Here. You live here now. Because I said so.”

Anders pressed himself into her. “A part of me doesn’t want to intrude, but… the more selfish part of me doesn’t ever want to leave you.” He kissed her shoulder.

“Good. Because you’re not going anywhere.” Now that Hawke had him, she never wanted to let him out of her sight again. She pressed her head up underneath his chin.

Anders sighed happily and held her. “You’ve haunted my dreams for three years, you know. I’m still terrified I’ll wake up.”

“I’ll be right here when you do,” she vowed. “Always.”

They slept, then, and for the most part their sleep was sound, for they had each other now, so what could the world do to them? Every so often, though, Hawke would wake up and reach for him, just to check and make sure he was still there. She had a sort of strange, deep-seated fear that he was going to disappear during the night. Not willingly, no, for he would never, but she was afraid he might suddenly blink out of existence, the way a sudden hailstorm or a shooting star or so many other beautiful forces of nature do. But every time she reached for him she was greeted with his solid warmth, and they’d press themselves close and mumble endless declarations of love and promises of safety to the other until they fell asleep again.

Hawke woke to birds chirping and warm sunlight streaming in through a window the next morning. Anders was still asleep, and Hawke spent a few minutes quietly marveling at him and gently running her fingers through his hair until he began to stir and then she climbed atop him and woke him up with several kisses. He responded enthusiastically and then with a sly smile he began to push her over so they could switch positions, but Hawke stopped him because now it was _her_ turn to be on top, and she straddled him and rode him until the two of them were both quivering, whimpering messes, at which point they burrowed into each other and fell back asleep— all of this without having said a word, other than crying out each other’s name.

They woke up again about an hour later, and Anders pulled Hawke against his chest and pressed his face into her hair. “I love you,” he mumbled.

And as soon as he’d said that, his stomach growled.

“Romantic,” Hawke deadpanned. “Want a sandwich?”

Anders chuckled and Hawke turned around and they kissed, and then they finally pulled themselves out of bed. Hawke put on a robe, and then took another one from the closet and tossed it to Anders. He tugged it on himself, and Hawke giggled at him.

“What?” Anders asked, grinning at her as he tied the robe in place.

“Your hair,” Hawke said. She didn’t think she had ever seen anyone with bed hair quite so ridiculous, and Bethany’s had certainly been a top contender for that title.

They laughed together before Hawke produced a brush and she sat Anders down on the edge of the bed so she could brush his hair for him, and then once she was finished she looked around for his hair tie but she couldn’t find it anywhere. She finally decided it must have rolled under the bed, and as she was much too lazy to crawl underneath it and retrieve it, she grabbed a curtain tieback and used that instead. It was blood red and silken and had the Amell crest stitched in it with fine golden threads. “I feel bad putting that in my greasy hair,” Anders admitted as Hawke fastened it.

“Don’t,” said Hawke. “We have spares. Besides, this shows the world that you’re mine now.”

Anders leaned against her, and she wrapped her arms around him and kissed the back of his head where golden hair met crimson silk.

Then they went downstairs for breakfast.

Leandra was already up and she was ecstatic to see them. She greeted Anders with a hug and a “so this is the man my daughter won’t stop talking about!”, to which Hawke sighed and Anders blushed, and then they bantered as Orana made them tea, eggs and toast. “You know, I ran away with an apostate,” said Leandra with wistful eyes. They were all at the table and she was sitting across from them. “At the time, everyone told me it would be the worst decision I ever made. But now I think that even with all the heartache that followed, it was actually the best decision I ever made.” She smiled at Anders and Hawke, silently giving them her blessing, and Hawke reached out for Anders and took his hand as food arrived, and it was all blissfully, delightfully _normal_.

Afterwards they returned to her room— their room— and Anders changed into his coat. “Sorry to eat and run, but I’m afraid I’ve still got people to heal,” he said as he buckled the straps around him.

“I know,” said Hawke, and she was beaming with pride and love. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Anders took a few steps forward and took Hawke’s face in his hands and kissed her, and there were tears in his eyes as he pulled away. “Sorry,” he said, and wiped his eyes. “It’s… been a long time since I’ve had a family. One with bedrooms and breakfast every morning and people going off to work. I didn’t realize just how much I’d missed it.”

Hawke put her arms around his skinny waist and looked up at him happily. She had a realistic idea that their life wouldn’t always be like this, and that was fine. For now, she wanted him to have it as long as they could. “We’ll make the world like this for everyone,” she told him. “Mages too. You’ll see.”

Anders, smiling, shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve better.” Hawke was completely sincere. He was some sort of ethereal, celestial creature and he deserved someone equally as otherworldly.

“There is no better.” Anders kissed her again, and Hawke saw him out the front door, and then she went off to clear out the Bone Pit, as she did once a week.

She was whistling as she went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aahh finally wrote this chapter! Thank you SO much to everyone who has read so far and followed me to this point, and thank you to my betas/pre-readers (against stars, emberkeelty and misteradequate) for catching typos and giving me input.
> 
> The story's not done yet! :D


	23. I'll Fight Through the Ether and Quit When I'm Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Anders are very cuddly. Then Hawke kills someone with her bare hands, and then she and Anders are very cuddly again. You know. Their relationship, in a nutshell.

The next several weeks were delightfully and refreshingly normal.

Anders would go to work in the morning after breakfast while Hawke went out and killed things, and then they’d both return home where they would lavish each other with tender affection, simply enjoying the other’s company, and then they’d make love and fall asleep in each others’ arms. None of it ever got old, and Hawke found that she loved him more with each passing day.

Eventually Anders began returning home early. “I’m getting fewer cases these days,” he’d said as Hawke helped him change into his soft robes for the evening. “I think the refugees have mostly found jobs… or died.” He had a bit of a sour note in his voice as he said that last bit.

Hawke took the cords of his robe in her hands and pulled him towards her so she could kiss him. “I can guarantee a lot more would have died if you hadn’t been there,” she said, and she kissed him again.

“You are the one bright light in Kirkwall, did you know that?” Anders said, his hand on her cheek, and no matter how many times he touched her, Hawke thrilled at it every time.

So he began coming home around noon and he’d sit at Hawke’s desk and work on his manifesto. Hawke would proofread it for him and offer suggestions, although more than once they got sidetracked by _each other_ when she attempted to do so. Not that either of them were complaining, of course.

Not every day was quite so happy. Hawke and Anders both had moments where they needed particular care. Anders, in particular, would have stretches of days at a time where he would withdraw from the world and either insist that his cause was getting nowhere, or refuse to talk about it entirely. “It’s not working,” he’d say, frustrated and distraught. “And what am I, if it’s not working? What am I, if not the cause of mages?” Sometimes he’d want to be alone during these times, but usually he liked having Hawke there, quietly sitting in bed with him and holding his head in her lap and stroking his hair. She was patient with him, speaking in soft, soothing tones and never trying to convince him of anything, because she knew it was his mind playing tricks on him, as her own mind would sometimes do with her, and it seemed that time and gentle reminders to eat were the only real remedies.

That is, until she did some research of her own and discovered a remedy, of sorts: a particular concoction of several high quality herbs mixed with a few other ingredients, which was available at a few specialist shops throughout Kirkwall. Hawke acquired some one day and coaxed Anders into taking it. He refused, at first, because of course he did— he knew of the potion, and felt others needed it more than he did. It was expensive, and he wanted to give it away to his clients. But Hawke was firm and insistent, and finally Anders began taking a dose of it every day and she was glad to see that it did help some.

He was prone to mood swings, regardless, and his lows would often be followed by a string of days where he would be intensely focused on his work and he’d sit at his desk, one leg bouncing up and down, chewing on the end of his quill for minutes at a time before launching into hours of uninterrupted writing. Hawke left him alone during these moments, for the most part, unless he was staying up particularly late, in which case she would gently bring him to bed. He was usually glad to do so, willingly putting down his pen soon after Hawke asked and climbing into bed alongside her. He would be fast asleep within minutes on these late nights, cuddled safely in Hawke’s arms while she whispered promises into his ear about how no one would ever hurt him again. She promised him that almost every night, because she felt that that oath was the best gift she had to give him.

Word of their relationship got around the city very quickly. First it reached her friends. “It’s about damn time,” Isabela said between drinks at the Hanged Man. “How did you manage to wait that long, anyway? And more importantly, was the payoff worth it? Is he good?”

For anyone else, Hawke might’ve found that to be too personal of a question, but for Isabela, it was everyday chatter. “You have no idea,” she said, and she left it that. Her smug expression told her everything she needed to say.

“Well shit,” said Isabela with no small amount of awe. “I need to find myself a fade spirit.”

Then there was Varric. “Listen,” he said after some casual banter. “As your friend, I’d feel remiss if I didn’t say something. Maybe, just maybe, getting involved with the possessed mage is a bad idea. There, I’ve said my piece.”

Had it been anyone else saying the words, Hawke would have been very annoyed. Since it was a good friend, she was only slightly annoyed. “Well well well,” she said between drinks of ale. “I didn’t figure you were the jealous sort. I thought you and Bianca were very happy together already.”

Varric chuckled. “Bianca and I in a committed relationship. And if you and Blondie are as well, then I won’t pry.”

“Thank you.”

  


Her other friends weren’t quite as vocal about it. Merrill was ecstatic for her… for about twenty seconds, before promptly getting distracted by sparrows in the rafters. And Hawke got the impression that neither Aveline nor Fenris were very happy with the arrangement but they didn’t particularly want to discuss it, which was fine with her. She valued their friendship, but she also felt that they’d all have to agree to disagree in this case.

Then, word got out to the general populace that Hawke, the lost Amell, the Viscount’s unofficial right hand, had hooked up with the healer from Darktown, essentially making him thoroughly untouchable by the templars unless they wished to risk the wrath of not only Darktown but also several noble families and possibly the Viscount himself. It was Kirkwall’s hottest gossip for months. “Did you hear,” various aristocrats would say to each other, “That two apostates are living together, in Kirkwall, right under the Knight-Commander’s nose! She can’t possibly be happy about that.”

Hawke was, of course, quite aware of this and was more than willing to take full advantage of it. She took to carrying her father’s staff around, having practiced with it a little. This one was very _blatantly_ not a halberd and Hawke was _damn_ proud of that fact.

No one bothered her. Templars, when they saw her, would awkwardly shuffle their feet and look the other direction, because no one wanted to be the one who was unlucky enough to try to come up against _Hawke_. Hawke felt, in a way, as though she had won some sort of grand war. There was still a lot of work to do, and she knew that, but she enjoyed savoring what she thought was a small victory, regardless.

She really put it to the test one day when she marched into the Gallows specifically to talk to a templar. His name was Ser Emeric, and Aveline wanted Hawke to help him deal with an investigation that he’d been chasing for some time. Normally she wouldn’t want anything to do with templars unless it involved killing them, but this one seemed to at least be working for a fairly benign cause and she also sort of wanted to gloat. So Hawke put on her father’s outfit and took his staff, and then approached Anders at the desk.

He was, as he usually was at this point in the afternoon, hunched over his papers and inkwell, working on his manifesto. Hawke came up behind him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Is the cause of mages working hard?” she asked affectionately. She knew he was. He always was.

“Mmm.” Anders reached up with one of his own hands to put it on hers, and he looked at her with a loving smile. “Did you need something, love?”

 _Love_. He was always calling her pet names like that, and they thrilled her every time. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to the Gallows,” said Hawke.

Anders’ smile faded and concern settled on his brows. “The Gallows?”

“Yeah. I guess women are going missing and the one person who actually cares about it is a fucking templar. I find it hard to believe, but I’m willing to give it a shot.” Hawke shrugged. “You don’t have to come. I know you hate going to the Gallows. But I wanted you to know where I’d be.” She leaned over and kissed the top of his head.

“It’s not myself I’m worried about,” said Anders.

“I’ll be fine,” said Hawke. “Don’t worry about me.” Telling Anders not to worry about her was, she knew, an impossible task, but she wanted to try anyway.

Anders clenched her hand tighter. “I’ll come with you,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Hawke asked, although she already knew the answer.

“Am I sure I want to go somewhere with you? Always.” He gave her a smile, again, although it was a strained one, and he stood and got his coat and pulled it on. Hawke helped him with the straps. He didn’t need help, but she wanted to provide it, and he let her.

Bodahn stopped them before they could head out. “A letter for you, Messere. It looks fancy, doesn’t it?”

Hawke took it from him; it was from the Viscount. Deciding that _probably_ shouldn’t wait, she opened it and read it, while Anders put his arms around her and put his chin up on her shoulder to read it as well.

The letter was short and to the point. Apparently the Arishok had sent the Viscount some Qunari delegates who had promptly gone missing. He had suspicions that it was one of the city guardsmen gone rogue, and he asked Hawke to look into it.

“Hmm,” said Hawke. “Where do you think we might find a guard so eager to sell their honor? Hanged Man?”

“Definitely Hanged Man,” Anders agreed. His chin was still on Hawke’s shoulder, and she turned her face to kiss him.

“Alright,” she said. “Gallows first, then we’ll head to the Barracks and pick up Aveline, if she’s around. Then we’ll go to the Hanged Man. It’ll be a day out.”

“I’d rather stay here with you,” Anders murmured into her neck before kissing her there.

“We’ll come right back and we’ll have a good night,” said Hawke. “Promise.”

  


Hawke would keep her promise.

Even if it meant having to wait several more hours than she wanted to.

Even if it meant being covered in blood, as she currently was.

The day had gone downhill fast. The trip to the Gallows had actually been the least stressful part of it all. Oh, the templars had all stared at her, and the one whom Anders had identified as Knight-Captain Cullen had been squinting at the pair of them from across the road the whole time, but Ser Emeric hadn’t seemed to mind their status and was just relieved he was actually getting help. Hawke had pledged to look into his investigation, and then they’d gone and picked up Aveline and headed to the Hanged Man, where Aveline roughed up a delinquent guard and learned that he’d helped kidnap the Qunari delegates with the _blessing of the Grand Cleric_ — or at least someone directly underneath her.

A very familiar someone, in fact.

Sister Petrice, whom Hawke had met so long ago, had since been promoted to _Mother_ Petrice, and Hawke was going to kill her.

At least, she would after she killed her pet templar, who was the bigger threat at the moment.

His name was Ser Varnell. Hawke had seen him before and she regretted not killing the bastard when she’d had the chance earlier. Now he was apparently murdering bound Qunari on Petrice’s orders in order to incite a war, and Hawke was more than happy to use that as an excuse to fight him.

…not that she needed much of an excuse to fight templars, mind.

So now she and Anders and Aveline and Varric were disposing of all of Petrice’s henchmen. There were a lot of them, and on top of that Varnell was a seasoned fighter and well-trained templar. Hawke’s spells against him were all frustratingly ineffective, because he was countering every last one, and he had a sneer on his ugly face as he did so which made it all the more enraging. Faster and harder she pounded him with spells, rage in every bolt of lightning or deadly, jagged shard of ice, and he broke the power of every cast of magic before it could harm him.

Aveline was on him, then, because he couldn’t dodge a sword forever no matter how well-honed his shield skills were, but then Anders ran up closer to cast a healing spell and Varnell whirled on him. He couldn’t reach him with his sword, but the best templars had a decent amount of range with a smite, and he cast it now and it knocked the wind out of Anders and he fell backward, roughly, landing upon the jagged rocks and debris of the sewer.

Hawke was crouched down by his side in an instant, helping him up. A rock had sliced one of his hands open and he was bleeding. “Anders! Can you heal?” She asked him in a panic.

“Lyrium,” Anders gasped out. “I need—”

He didn’t need to say anything else. Hawke reached into the pouch on Anders’ belt and pulled out a small vial that glowed a bright blue and handed it to him. He popped the cork and downed the contents in a single gulp, and then tossed the empty vial to the ground and proceeded to heal himself.

Varnell saw that their healer was temporarily out of action and got a hit in on Aveline that sent her stumbling back, and then he turned to face Hawke. She stared back at him, but only for a split second before realizing what she had to do.

If he was expecting magic, he wasn’t going to get it.

But if he was expecting a monster, he _was_ going to get that.

Hawke rubbed the back of her hand across the bridge of her nose. Her hand had been covered in Anders’ blood, now transferred to her face, and Varnell lunged at her and she _jumped_ on him with such force that it bowled him over backward and he landed on the ground, Hawke atop him, and she reached out with both of her bloody hands and strangled him. He coughed and sputtered, his eyes wide and his face growing increasingly purple, but there was nothing he could do, because his sword and shield had been knocked out of his reach and Hawke successfully rebuffed all his attempts to reach for her. After several agonizing seconds the man passed out, at which point Hawke twisted her hands with one fluid motion and broke his neck. That action made a sickening cracking sound that almost seemed to echo in the darkness, and Hawke felt equally revitalized and terrible. She was a fucking monster, she thought, but that wasn’t a bad thing, no. That was an _invigorating_ thing.

Still crouched on Varnell’s limp and broken body, Hawke looked up at her friends. She was snarling, but she couldn’t _not_. Aveline and Varric both looked at her with expressions that were startled and even a bit disgusted, but Anders—

Anders—

He was looking at her with unwavering awe and affection.

“Love,” he said gently. “Are you alright?” He leaned over and held out a hand; it was still bloody, albeit healing.

Hawke took it and he lifted her up and she burrowed into his chest, where she was warm and safe, and he soothed her and stroked her muddied hair and whispered soft words into her ear, and slowly, slowly her heartbeat returned to normal and the part of her that was a monster retreated back into the shadows of her soul and the part of her that was Hawke, a friend, a daughter, a sister, a mage, a _lover_ — that part of her crept into Anders’ embrace like a small, timid animal, and once he had sufficiently loved her back to herself she took his head in her hands and they kissed.

“Really?” Aveline asked. “You two have got to do that here? With dozens of dead bodies on the ground?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” said Varric. “My book is writing itself.”

Anders and Hawke ignored them so they could focus on each other. “Are you okay now?” Anders asked.

“Mmm,” said Hawke. “I’ll be alright.”

“Do you hurt anywhere?”

“Nope.” Hawke looked at his hand. “Do you?”

“I think my hack healing job did okay, considering,” said Anders with a half-smile.

“You should teach me some healing spells,” said Hawke. “That way I can help out when you need it. Maybe once we get back, after—” Hawke’s words stalled, and she pulled away from Anders and reached down to the ground to grab her staff. Once she had it, she spun around, eyes glaring. “Where is she?”

“What?” Aveline asked. “Who?”

“That bitch. Petrice. I’m going to fucking kill her. I’m going to—”

“Hawke,” said Anders softly, and his words were a balm for her anger. “She left soon after the fighting began. She’s probably back at the Chantry by now.”

Hawke took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down again. “Fucking… fine. Later. She can’t keep fucking running from me forever.” She turned to face the others. Aveline and Varric were looking at her oddly again. “What?” she asked.

“So. Is that blood on your face supposed to be war paint?” Varric asked.

Oh right. She _had_ done that, hadn’t she? “Yes,” she said.

“Should I… even ask _whose_ blood it is?” Varric replied.

Hawke put her staff over her shoulder and began to walk towards the sewer’s exit. “It’s the blood of the cause of mages,” she said.

  


They did have a good night, as Hawke had promised. She forced herself to push thoughts of Petrice out of her head and she set up a warm bath and she and Anders took it together, nestled into each other and enjoying each others’ presence. They washed each other’s hair and then Hawke washed Anders’ back, and she pressed a kiss to every last scar there, because it was proof that the Circle had tried to break his spirit and had failed. Then they ate dinner, and when they returned to their bedroom they sat themselves on the bed and Anders proceeded to teach her the rudiments of healing.

“There are two types of healing,” Anders told her, and he would’ve sounded very much like an Enchanter teaching apprentices except that Hawke couldn’t keep her hands off him so he was smiling and chuckling and occasionally planting kisses on her eager lips as he talked. “There are basic healing spells, which any mage can do, and then there is spirit healing, which, as the name suggests, involves calling on a benign spirit from the Fade—” He kissed her again, because she had climbed onto his lap and was running her fingers through his hair. “—you are a terrible student,” he said, and he smiled.

“I’m paying attention,” said Hawke.

“To what?” Anders smirked.

“Listen, I can’t help it if my teacher is this attractive. You know what I call that? Unjust.” She began to do undo his robes.

“Let me teach you this spell and then I’ll give you a surprise.”

That gave Hawke pause. “A surprise?”

He put his lips up against Hawke’s ear. “One I think you will like very much,” he murmured.

His words sent shivers up her spine and she immediately agreed. She leaned back and sat at attention, legs crossed. “Teach me,” she said.

“Alright,” said Anders. “Tell me how you cast your spells.”

Hawke genuinely wasn’t sure how to answer that question. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“Well, you reach into the Fade, right?” Anders said. “And push fire or ice or lightning around with that power. Correct?”

Casting spells had become so second nature to Hawke that she actually had to stop and think about it for a moment. “That sounds right,” she said at last.

“Well, you can also use that same power to push blood and bone and nerves around,” said Anders. “I imagine you’ve probably never tried that yourself.”

“I don’t know if I’d trust myself to,” Hawke admitted. Then she asked, “Is that how you do it?”

“Sort of. I’m trained in spirit healing, specifically. I ask benign spirits from the Fade to help, and they answer. It makes for much stronger healing spells than can normally be cast. But every mage can learn the basic spell that doesn’t involve spirits. Here. Take my hand.”

He certainly didn’t have to ask Hawke twice. She took his hand, and he lit it up with warm healing power which spread to her own. “Do you feel that tingling?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Hawke. The sensation was warm and pleasant.

“That’s me numbing the nerves in your hand. It reduces pain. That’s a very simple spell and you don’t need to be a spirit healer to do that. You can also heal minor wounds that way, by using your power to close them and stop the bleeding. More complicated spells require a certain knowledge of anatomy, and more complicated spells than that will require spirits. But this one is simple. Try it on me.”

“What if I mess it up?” Hawke didn’t want to accidentally hurt him. She only ever caused destruction with her magic. Which was all well and good when she was fighting people, but if she hurt Anders she didn’t know if she could ever forgive herself.

“You won’t,” Anders said. “Reach for the same spots in my hand that I was reaching for in yours.”

He seemed to have absolute faith in her, and Hawke found that reassuring. So, carefully, she tapped into the Fade and instead of using that energy to manipulate the elements, she carefully manipulated the fragile nerves in her own hand and then in Anders’. It was very delicate work, as though she had swapped a sword out for a needle and thread, but she was ecstatic to see first her hand and then Anders’ glowing with warm, blue magic.

Anders’ face lit up with pride. “Yes, exactly! Just like that.”

“Wow.” It was all Hawke could breathe as she looked down at their joined hands. _She_ was doing that. She was doing something incredible, something beautiful. Something _good_. “It’s… wonderful,” she said reverently, which was all she could say.

“It is.” Anders’ voice was soft.

She looked back up at him. He was smiling at her, and his eyes were filled with affection. “You have beautiful hands,” he said sincerely. “And they do beautiful things.”

“Psh. I just kill people. _You_ have beautiful hands. Beautiful hands that heal people and write amazing words about freedom and…” she lifted his hand to her lips, and he lit his up with healing magic now too, and they had a brief moment where they didn’t say anything because nothing needed to be said, because everything they _could_ say passed between their hands as they each gave each other that intimate, secret part of themselves that the rest of the world hated.

Finally, though, Hawke ended the spell and pulled her hand away. “Okay,” she said. “You taught me how to do it. Where’s my surprise?”

“Oh right. That.” Anders leaned over the bed to grab something from the ground, and Hawke watched him with nervous anticipation as he pulled up…

…a lute.

“What the… Anders?” Hawke asked.

And Anders gave her a sly smile and then began to serenade her with the the most absurd, over-the-top love song she’d ever heard in her life.

He could carry a tune… sort of… when the song was within his rather narrow vocal range… and when it wasn’t he resorted to a squeaky sort of falsetto and Hawke fell into peels of laughter and eventually she came up behind him and playfully attempted to cover his mouth, and in response he gently bit her hand, and before long both of them were laughing and the lute was forgotten and they tangled themselves together and loved each other. Tomorrow there would be Ser Emeric’s investigation to chase and she’d probably have to talk to Viscount Dumar and the Arishok and there might be more people to kill, but for now Hawke and Anders had each other and only each other and Hawke fell asleep in his arms, feeling warm and worthy of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuddling, killing, kissing over the dead bodies, more cuddling... yeah, this is why I love Handers. Thank you all for your continuing support!!


	24. And I'll Hold In These Hands...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Hawke cuddle after everything. After nightmares, after talking to the Arishok, after "talking" to Cullen...

When Hawke woke the next morning it was because Anders was agitated and groaning in his sleep.

In the few months that they’d been together, Hawke had learned that he had nightmares every so often. She remembered the one he’d had in the Deep Roads, long ago, and how he’d said that it was a side effect from the darkspawn taint, so unfortunately it didn’t seem like there was much she could do about these dreams other then gently wake him and hold him and tell him he was okay. She did that now, putting a hand on his face and talking to him softly.

Anders woke with a start. “Marian?” he gasped.

“Shh,” Hawke soothed him. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Anders reached up for her and pulled her close to him, crushing her in a fierce embrace. “Thank the Maker,” he breathed. “I thought…” he pulled away a bit so he could look into her face, and he reached up with one hand and pushed the hair out of her face so he could see her forehead, and in that instant Hawke knew _exactly_ what sort of horrific nightmare he’d had.

“Shh,” she said again. “It’s alright. I won’t let anyone take me away from you.”

Anders kissed her forehead, then, right where he’d checked. “Normally my nightmares are a little less terrifying,” he said. “They’re only about, you know. The archdemon. Not…” He looked at her with sad eyes. “…things that are somehow worse than that.”

Now it was Hawke’s turn to kiss him. “We’re going to make it so no one ever has that nightmare again,” she promised. She pressed herself against Anders, reveling in the simple contentment that was skin against skin.

“So long as you’re with me, I don’t doubt it.” Anders held her and lovingly ran his fingers through her short hair, which was sticking up every which way. They were always touching each other, desperate for contact, and Hawke lived for it. She ran a finger idly along the scar on his chest. His heart, she thought, could survive anything, and that thought brought her immense comfort.

“What do you think?” Hawke said. She lifted her head so she could look into Anders’ eyes. “Should we go talk to the Viscount first? After you come home from your clinic, I mean.”

“Mm, that sounds good,” said Anders. “But first…” He pulled her down again so he could kiss her, and for the next several minutes they shared a moment of blissful intimacy and they were happy and safe and together.

  


Anders was only at his clinic for a few hours, and when he returned he and Hawke ate lunch and then headed to Hightown to talk to Viscount Dumar about the events that had occurred the day before. He sighed and shook his head after hearing Hawke’s words. “Ridiculous. This whole thing is utterly ridiculous. And to think that a Chantry mother is behind it. I don’t know what to say, but thank you for your assistance.” He looked at Hawke. “Do you think we should dare tell the Arishok?”

“He’ll find out about it one way or another if we don’t,” said Hawke. “I think it’s probably best to be honest with him. I can head down there now.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Dumar shook his head again. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Hawke. And thank you, again.”

Hawke nodded at him, and she and Anders left.

From there, they made their way towards the city docks, where the Qunari lived, so Hawke could talk to the Arishok immediately. She thought it very probable that he’d already learned at least some of the details of what had happened, and she wanted to clear up any potential misunderstandings.

The docks, however, were very near the Gallows, and that’s when they saw Knight-Captain Cullen.

He spotted them at the same time and approached.

Hawke immediately wielded her staff, as did Anders beside her, and Cullen paused and put a hand on the hilt of his sword, and for a few seconds the air around them was tense with energy and heat, and a small crowd gathered around them. Presumably they wanted to see if the rumors were true— if Hawke and Anders actually _did_ have an unofficial free pass to live freely in the city as apostate mages. Cullen, for his part, didn’t seem to be happy with the attention, although Hawke thought it was to her and Anders’ advantage. Perhaps he wouldn’t try anything when there were witnesses around who could immediately feed the rumor mill.

“Hawke, is it?” Cullen said evenly. His hand was still on his sword hilt. “I… just wanted to talk.” He turned and glared at the people who were rubbernecking nearby and they all scattered.

“I don’t think you need your sword for that,” said Hawke.

“Nor do you two need your staves,” Cullen replied.

The stalemate continued for several very long moments. Finally, though, Hawke lowered her staff— largely because she knew that she could cast just fine without it, if necessary. She wasn’t scared of him. Cullen responded by moving his hand away from his sword, and then and only then did Anders put his own staff down.

Cullen was the first to talk. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself around Kirkwall,” he said. He was looking at Hawke, not Anders, and Hawke didn’t know whether he was deliberately ignoring him or whether he just lacked interest in him. His voice was irritatingly cheerful. He was talking as though they were old friends who didn’t know each other yet. It made Hawke uncomfortable.

“Have I?” she asked flatly. She was keenly aware of the fact that he could attempt to fight or arrest her, or worse, Anders, at any moment if he wanted to, and that he had every “right” to do both.

“Some of the things you’ve done have been a great help for the city. And I hear you’re the new scion of the Amell family, as well. I just wanted to congratulate you.”

He was being _too_ friendly, and Hawke knew it was fake. She remembered talking to her father about templars, once, when she was small, and it had been very confusing. A templar had helped him escape the Circle, he told her. “Rule is not served by caging the best of us,” the templar had said. This, supposedly, made him a “good” templar. But Hawke was confused, because why cage anyone at all? What was so special about someone who saw many people in a cage and chose to free only one person?

She’d asked her father about that, and he’d ruffled her hair and told her fondly “Never stop asking questions like that, sweetheart.” But he also never answered her. Instead he kissed her and put her to bed, and that question and memory still drifted in and out of Hawke’s mind, sometimes.

So no. Until she was proven wrong, she was going to assume that even templars who didn’t want to lock _her_ up, in specific, still wanted to lock up those _like_ her.

“Well,” Hawke said brusquely. “Congratulations accepted. Are you done talking to me?”

“You don’t have to be so defensive,” said Cullen. “I’m not going to arrest you, or your… friend, there. The viscount has made it clear to us that we are to cut you some slack because you’ve made yourself invaluable to him. And we shall, so long as your behavior is of the highest order.”

Anders cut in. “Is that a threat?”

Cullen looked over at him for the first time. “Hardly,” he said. “You and I both know that mages can be dangerous. In fact, I imagine a mage understands that more than anyone else. So no, it’s not a threat. It’s a reminder.”

“Ah, yes, there it is,” said Hawke. Her teeth were gritted. “What is it they say? ‘A mage is fire made flesh and a demon asleep’, is that it? We’re all just demons waiting to happen, is that it?”

Cullen sighed and rubbed his temple. “And I suppose you stand with the current popular thought, then. You know, there was a time when templars were celebrated and seen as heroes.”

Hawke snorted. “Templars have systematically abused mages for a thousand years. You’ll forgive me if I don’t exactly think that makes them heroes.”

“What abuse? Mages cannot be treated like people.” That came out of Cullen’s mouth before he remembered who he was talking to, and he quickly backtracked. “Forgive me, but you weren’t there,” he said. “You weren’t there at Kinloch Hold when a blood mage took over and nearly destroyed the entire tower. You might feel differently if it had been you, shoved into a magical prison and taunted by demons for hours— days—”

“Oh my,” said Anders sarcastically. “That sounds… _harrowing_.”

Cullen got the dark joke and looked back over at him. “Would you rather we not test mages, then? Just make them all tranquil?”

“It seems to be something you templars are fond of discussing, anyway,” said Hawke. She reached into a pocket and pulled out the crumpled papers she’d found on Ser Alrik a few months back. These she handed to Cullen. “Tell me, what do you think of this?”

Cullen scanned the papers and raised an eyebrow. “I… don’t think I will ask how you acquired a templar’s personal effects,” he said. “But yes. It’s true that there was some discussion of the idea. But as you can see, it has gone no further than that.”

“Do you expect us to believe that?” Anders said.

Cullen ignored him. “As for the Harrowing, it has served us well enough for centuries. And the Tranquil ritual was created as a mercy so that mages need not be killed out of hand for a threat they might pose. There is certainly an argument to be made for applying it more widely.”

Hawke gaped as she realized what he was saying. “You— you support this,” she said finally. There was disgust in her voice.

“Only because I have to. Many mages have made it clear they view Tranquility as no better than death. They want no controls on them at all. An unchecked mage is a threat to everyone. And as a templar, I neutralize threats. To mages and non-mages alike. That’s what we do: we protect.”

Anders turned to face Hawke, utter disbelief in his eyes. “Are you going to listen this? He’s no better than fucking Ser Alrik.”

“No. We’re not going to listen to it. But I do have one more question for him.” Hawke looked back over at Cullen. “When do I get to meet the Knight-Commander? I think I’d like to ask her a few questions.”

Cullen folded his arms. “I’m afraid she’s become more reclusive as of late. These last three years, especially, she’s been very suspicious of outside influences. I almost wonder if something happened.”

“Her conscience is finally catching up to her, maybe?” Anders quipped.

“We can only hope,” Hawke replied. She looked back at Cullen. He was looking at them oddly, as though they were a puzzle that he couldn’t quite work out. That was fine with Hawke. “I want you and your templars to stay out of my way,” she told him.

Cullen sighed. “I don’t wish to be your enemy, Hawke.”

“Too late. You’re a templar. In fact, did I say ‘stay out of my way’? I changed my mind. I don’t ever want to see you again.” She turned to leave without waiting for him to respond. Anders was right there beside her almost immediately. He was radiating love and pride, and Hawke was thrilled by the reminder that she wasn’t alone, and nor was he, and she reached out for him, suddenly, and they both came to a stop and they kissed. It was broad daylight and they were very much in public and Hawke was pretty sure Cullen was still right there, but she didn’t care as she tuned out her surroundings and wrapped her arms around her dear healer’s thin waist and held him close to her.

“I love you,” Anders told her between kisses.

“I love you,” Hawke smiled. Her hand was on his cheek, and Anders kissed her palm.

And all of Kirkwall, if they’d stopped by just then, would have seen a very different side of the fearsome Marian Hawke, standing there with the scruffy rebel mage from Darktown. They would’ve seen her shed her hardened shell for him and only for him, her eyes and arms and movements tender and reminiscent of springtime’s softest, most gentle breeze.

But then they would have seen her eyes harden back up again as she held him in her fierce arms, pressing him to her heart, glaring out at the Knight-Captain and at the rest of the city beyond him and at the rest of the world beyond that. Because Anders was hers, and no one would ever take him from her. She would kill everyone who tried. And if anyone were to look at her just then, they’d know it.

  


Hawke was never really scared of going to the Qunari compound.

In fact, she had the rather unique ability to look the Arishok in the eye and not flinch.

Oh, he was certainly fear-inducing. He was enormous, somehow taller than any of the other Qunari Hawke had seen, with arms and hands that she was certain could crush a man’s skull with very little effort. Hawke couldn’t really blame anyone for being scared of him.

She just… wasn’t.

She had the impression, when she talked to him, that he was too in thrall to his own personal belief system to go against that by suddenly killing her. He was restraining himself. Not because he wanted to, but because he felt he had to.

And so long as he felt that way, Hawke was safe. She was so safe, in fact, that she was willing to toe the line with him. Which she often did. Frequently.

“Hawke,” the Arishok told her, his voice rumbling. “I assume you are here to tell me what happened to the delegates that I sent your Viscount.”

“They were killed by extremists,” Hawke replied matter-of-factly. “So I killed the ones responsible. Well, most of them. There was a woman who got away, and I’m going to kill her soon enough.”

The Arishok nodded at her. “Your honesty does you credit. I find that I have a growing lack of disgust for you. I must ask you, however. Why do you let this city fester, like an infected wound? Why do your people do nothing to clean the filth from this cesspit? You are intelligent. Surely you must see this as well as I can.”

“Of course this place is a shithole,” said Hawke. “You don’t have to tell me that.” Beside her she could see Anders nervous and fidgety and she mentally kicked herself for making him worry for her safety all the time. She changed the subject. Sort of. “Why don’t you leave?” She asked the Arishok. “You don’t have to be here, you know. You can go back to… wherever the fuck you’re from.”

“Do you truly think I would willingly remain?” He replied. “We are here for a reason. We have an artifact that we are working on recovering. Until then, we are denied Par Vollen. And until then, we have to sit and watch your people feed and feed while corruption grows around them.”

“Well, I don’t exactly see you doing anything about it.” Hawke said. Anders shot her another terrified look, and Hawke gave herself yet another mental kick.

“Fixing your mess is not a demand of the Qun. And for that, you should all be grateful.” He actually raised his voice and lifted himself out of his chair as he said that last bit before settling himself back down again. “Panahedan, Serah Hawke.”

Hawke nodded at him stiffly and then left. Anders was right by her side, visibly relieved, and as soon as they were out of the Qunari compound he scooped her up in his arms in a tight hug and begged her to be more careful. “Please,” he told her, his eyebrows pursed as he looked deep into her eyes. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t live if something were to happen to you.”

“I know,” she said, and she reached up and held his face soothingly. “It’s just. Habit. I don’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.”

Anders smiled at her. Hawke took one of his hands and kissed it. She loved every bit of him, but his hands were one of her favorite things. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go hang out with Varric or something.”

  


It was evening when they eventually headed out to follow the lead Ser Emeric had given them. Hawke and Anders had done a few odd jobs with Varric first, followed by an early dinner at home. Leandra was ever pleased to see Hawke and Anders happy together, and remarked that she might just start bringing someone home as well. Hawke replied, genuinely, that she would be happy so long as Leandra was happy. After dinner they said their goodbyes and headed back out.

Their destination was the DuPuis mansion in Hightown. An Orlesian man named Gascard DuPuis was Ser Emeric’s top suspect, and they were to investigate his home. They’d picked up Varric and Aveline before heading there, and as it turned out that was a good decision, because they were attacked by shades and a rage demon the moment they stepped foot in the house.

The creatures were no real match for them, but Hawke was caught off guard by their presence. She was going to ask Anders what he thought about it, but Varric had spotted a letter on a desk and waved the others over to look. Hawke approached and read it aloud. “Gascard, thank you kindly for your last shipment. It arrived in almost perfect condition. The requested payment is on its way. Please use the artifact with care. The creatures can be difficult to control, even for an experienced mage. A pleasure doing business, your friend.”

“Creatures?” Anders asked. “What creatures are they talking about? The shades?”

“And he’s a mage, too, apparently,” said Hawke. “Do you know him?”

Anders shook his head. “I know a lot of the apostates here, but not all of them. I’m sure some are hiding their status from even me. And I don’t blame them for that, either.”

Hawke nodded. “We’ll find out who he is soon enough,” she said, and turned to face her other friends. “Ready?”

They headed further into the mansion, where they were soon set upon by more shades. They were disposed of easily enough, and they found another letter on a desk. This one was from the First Enchanter of Starkhaven’s Circle. Hawke scanned it. “It looks like our friend DuPuis asked the Starkhaven Circle about missing mages.”

“What? Why?” Aveline was confused.

Hawke shrugged. “He does seem to be a rather interesting fellow, doesn’t he?”

“Hawke,” Anders said. He was inspecting a nearby table. “You may want to come look at this.”

She walked over to where Anders was standing and followed his gaze. He was looking at a few vials filled with blood. “Lovely,” she said. “Blood magic?”

“Mm-hmm,” said Anders. “Someone’s been naughty.”

“So let me guess,” said Varric behind them. “This is why they put us on the case. Because no one else wants to deal with a potential murderer who also happens to be a blood mage.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re invincible then, isn’t it?” Hawke turned and walked past him and they continued onward.

There weren’t any shades in the next room, but there was another letter. This one was actually from the Knight-Commander herself, apologizing for Ser Emeric’s accusations. “Huh,” said Anders. “I have a strange feeling she doesn’t know he’s actually a blood mage.”

Hawke couldn’t reply because she heard a woman screaming from the next room over. She didn’t wait a second, kicking the door open and barging into the room, the others right behind her. A man was holding a woman by the arm, admonishing her, and Hawke held her staff at the ready. “Drop her,” she said, her voice low and guttural.

“Help!” The woman implored them. “He’s hurting me!”

“I’m protecting you!” The man shot back. He had a thick Orlesian accent, and Hawke assumed he must’ve been DuPuis. He looked over at Hawke and the others, and if he was frightened of them at all, he didn’t show it. “You are not the killer,” he said.

“What?” Hawke asked.

“Please,” the woman begged again. “He took my blood…”

“I’ve explained this!” said the man. “It was so I could track you if he took you.”

“Alright, listen,” said Hawke, “I’m sure this is an interesting story and all, but if I could get a run-down on what’s going on, that would be fantastic.”

The woman managed to wriggle out of the man’s grasp, now, and she ran out the room and down the hall. Hawke watched her go, then turned back to DuPuis. She still had her staff at the ready, but although DuPuis had his own, he didn’t look as though he had any intention of using it. “Am I to assume you are tracking this killer also?” he said.

“Are you?” Hawke asked him.

“Yes.” DuPuis looked away. “Several years ago, my sister was murdered. And now the bastard’s in Kirkwall, killing again. It always happens the same way. It starts with a bouquet of white lilies. He sends them to each new victim. Alessa— the woman you saw— was going to be next. My intention was to lure the villain here and trap him. But… you showed up instead. Tracking me, I presume.”

“I mean… you kind of did make yourself a target. Kidnapping people and all.” Hawke finally lowered her staff. A little. If he did try anything now, well, it was four against one, blood mage or not.

DuPuis shrugged. “Perhaps. But revenge will drive a man to do many strange things. Surely you cannot blame me.” He looked over at Aveline, and then back at Hawke. “And I suppose you are here to arrest me?”

“I could kill you, if you prefer,” said Hawke.

The man let out a snorting laugh. “You could. But I have useful information that might lead me to this killer and stop these murders once and for all. I could lead us both to this killer, if you wish. We are on the same side.”

Considering that said killer had been leading people on for years, Hawke had her doubts about what DuPuis knew that others didn’t. Still, she had to admit that the man did seem to have more information than anyone else so far. She wasn’t particularly interested in chasing said information at the moment, but at least she’d have some new clues to give to Ser Emeric. “Okay, I’ll bite,” she said. “What information?”

“I have reasons to believe that he has a base of operations below Darktown,” said DuPuis. He turned and began to leave. “And that’s where I’m going to head right now. You can come with me, if you like.”

“I’ll pass,” said Hawke. She turned to leave herself, but Aveline stopped her. “Hawke. Are you sure letting a blood mage go is a good idea?”

“Do you really want to fight a blood mage?” Hawke started walking again. “We have some more information to give to Ser Emeric. It’ll shut him up for a bit. That’s what you wanted me to do, wasn’t it? Muzzle the old dog?”

Aveline sighed but said nothing else as they made their way out of the building. Anders fell in step beside Hawke, and she reached out and took his hand.

  


When they returned home, Gamlen was harassing Bodahn. “You _must’ve_ seen her,” she said. “Are you blind? Maker’s fucking teeth.”

Bodahn held his hands palm up. “Like I said, she went out right after dinner. That’s all I know. Oh, but here is Serah Hawke. She might know something”

Hawke quirked an eyebrow at her uncle. “The alcohol is all upstairs, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Real fucking funny.” Gamlen stormed over towards her. “I happen to be looking for your mother. Have you seen her?”

“I… saw her at dinner,” said Hawke. “Why?”

Gamlen threw up his arms and turned. “Why does everyone ask me that? What if I just want to see my sister? I help you get into the city and this is the fucking thanks I get—”

Hawke, though, had tuned him out.

She was looking at a vase on the desk.

In it was a bouquet of white lilies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Cullen's lines here are lifted directly from the game. Really I just wanted to give Hawke a chance to tell him how she REALLY felt.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this last bit of happiness before the next chapter D:
> 
> Thank you all for your ongoing comments and kudos! They are much appreciated!


	25. ...All That Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

> Hawke remembered having long hair when she was very small. Well, it was sort of long. It went about halfway down her back and her parents would braid it or put it into a ponytail. She’d do her best to sit very still when they did this, although she wasn’t always very successful, but she loved how much her parents would praise her when she did.
> 
> She got her hair cut very short right around the same time she got her magic. She was an active girl who was usually playing in the dirt or mud, and it just got to be too much to have to work out the tangles and snags all the time. “You can cut it shorter, you know,” Malcolm had told her once.
> 
> “Can I have it like yours?” Hawke asked.
> 
> Malcolm laughed. “If you want.”
> 
> So her mother cut her hair for her. “You can always grow it long again later, if you change your mind,” she told her.
> 
> But Hawke looked in the mirror afterward and saw her new hair, disheveled and a bit spiky, like a mabari with its hackles raised, and decided she probably wouldn’t change her mind.

 

—

 

Hawke burst from the estate, and she was snarling much like her dog was on her heels. Anders, beside her, said “Darktown?”

Hawke didn’t reply because she had already turned and was dashing off in that direction. Anders and Shadow followed, and moments later they nearly bowled over a templar who was running up to them. Hawke didn’t have the time or inclination to deal with a templar right now, because one thought was on her mind and _one thought only_ , but beside her Anders had his staff ready and she saw sparks of Justice dancing on his skin, and she prepared for a fight but the templar was, oddly enough, not fighting back. “Serah!” she said. “Serah Hawke! I need to talk to you.”

“Fuck you,” said Hawke, and she turned to leave now that a fight wasn’t happening. Now wasn’t time for talking _couldn’t she see now wasn’t time for talking_ and she was already halfway past her when she spoke up again.

“Serah Hawke, it’s important!” The templar pleaded. “It’s about Ser Emeric.”

Hawke hadn’t really been expecting anything to get her attention, but that did. She whirled on the templar. “What does he know?”

“He’s dead, serah.”

That actually stunned Hawke. “What?”

“He was killed. Got a message from you, he said, and went off to find you.”

“I… didn’t send him any message.” Hawke looked over at Anders, and he was just as confused.

“Maker’s breath,” said the templar. “It must’ve been a trap, then. He got too close to the truth.” She looked at Anders and then back at Hawke. “He said he had a lead on someone named Gascard DuPuis. Did he do this?”

Hawke only had to think about that for a few seconds, running a hand through her tousled hair as she did so. Then she made up her mind and roughly shoved her way past the templar. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” she said, and broke into a run again.

 

—

 

 

> Hawke’s father told her about demons soon after she’d first learned she was a mage. “Sometimes,” he said, with her on his knee, “When you’re feeling very angry or upset or sad, you will feel things tugging at your mind. Little whispers, telling you that you and your life are nothing but that the voices know how to make things better. Don’t listen to those voices.”
> 
> “Why not?” Hawke asked. She loved sitting on dad’s knee and she was listening to him very intently.
> 
> “Well,” said Malcolm, “Because those voices belong to things that want to twist you up and use you for their own purposes.”
> 
> “Are they bad?” Hawke looked up at him and tilted her head.
> 
> Malcolm weighed his words carefully before replying. “They are just wrong,” he said. “And you are stronger than them. But they are also a part of what makes you a mage, and that’s not bad at all.”
> 
> He waited another few years to tell her about blood magic. “What I am about to tell you is very important,” he told her. Hawke had just finished practicing some larger spells with lyrium. She turned and looked at him expectantly. “There might come a time,” Malcolm continued, “When you will need to cast a big spell, but you don’t have enough lyrium for it. In those cases, you can use your own blood as a casting medium.”
> 
> “Isn’t that blood magic?” Hawke asked. She knew little about it, just that the town kids often used blood mages as a frequent boogieman in various scary playground stories.
> 
> “Yes,” said Malcolm. “And you should be careful not to use it unless you absolutely have to. It can attract demons— those thoughts in your mind that you have sometimes that you know aren’t yours— and I don’t want to see you fall prey to them.”
> 
> He didn’t have to tell Hawke twice. She’d had those thoughts every so often, by now, and they were insidious and clever, and she’d do what she could to avoid making them worse. “How will I know when it’s okay to use it, though?” She asked.
> 
> “You’ll know,” said Malcolm.

 

—

 

It was well into the night when Hawke, Anders, and Shadow delved into the depths of Darktown. She hadn’t said anything the entire time, and nor had Anders, for what was there to say? Now, though, Anders was talking again, just in quick, terse statements to direct her through the quickest and safest routes of the sewers— “Over here”, “This way”— and she followed his directions without question.

Gascard wasn’t expecting them when they arrived. He also certainly wasn’t expecting Hawke to punch him in the face, sending him sprawling. Before he could react, she reached down, grabbed his collar, hauled him up and pushed him against the closest wall. “Tell me where the fuck he is before I kill you,” she said.

Gascard was breathing heavily and Hawke could see the whites of his eyes as she stared him down. “I… I can track him,” he gasped out. “Let me go.”

Hawke didn’t. “Were you tracking him just now?” she demanded.

“I was about to,” said Gascard. “Please. I can’t do anything with you holding me like this.”

“How are you going to track him?” Hawke spit the words out at him.

“Blood magic. It’s the only way.”

Hawke thought for a moment. Beside her, Anders had his staff at the ready and Shadow was growling. If Gascard made any funny moves, they could handle him. She was certain of that.

She dropped him. “Alright,” she said. “Do your fucking blood magic.”

Gascard was roughed up, but quickly regained his composure as he produced a knife. “This will only take a moment,” he said, and he pressed the knife into his palm, producing a drop of blood which he promptly mixed into a vial that contained various other substances. Hawke folded her arms and watched.

Anders, beside her, probably wouldn’t be thrilled. He had always drawn a hard line at using blood magic, and she didn’t know how much of that was the human part of him and how much of that was the spirit part of him. Still, he knew what was at stake and said nothing to object, other than to ask if what Gascard was doing was similar to how a Circle’s phylactery worked (it was, he replied).

Gascard finished his work. He held up the vial, which was now pulsing with a low glow. It glowed brighter if held out in a certain direction. “There we go,” he said. “It’s working. I can track him.”

“I want you to take me directly to him. Now.” There was a rumbling growl buried deep underneath Hawke’s voice.

Gascard set off and Hawke and the others followed him into the dark.

 

—

 

 

> Hawke remembered lying out in the fields outside Lothering with her family, tracing constellations in the night sky and inventing new ones. She and Carver got into an argument over whether one particular string of stars was a dog or a bear, a fight that went on for several minutes. Hawke was years older and thus she was clearly right. Finally her parents and Bethany decided that it was actually a lion, effectively ending that little spat. But all disagreements were quickly forgiven a little while later when Leandra opened a basket and produced a pie that she’d been hiding, and then the air was all light and laughter.

 

—

 

The air in the sewer was stifling and almost suffocating. It was dark all around, the only real light coming from the vial of blood that Gascard held, which glowed a sickly crimson. Brighter that glow got, and brighter, until it was bright enough to see the ground in front of them and that’s when Hawke saw something glittering on the floor and she reached down and snatched it up. “Mother’s locket,” she said with a trembling voice. So that was it, then, there was no longer any hope that the lilies had been mere coincidence. She was here, somewhere.

Anders was beside her, his eyes filled with worry. Not that Hawke noticed, because Gascard was still moving and that was good, and she rushed to catch up with him.

The path brightened ahead of them as the tunnels opened into what appeared to be a makeshift living space, complete with chairs, tables, and multiple lit candles and lanterns. There was a portrait of a woman on a shelf. The woman looked suspiciously like Leandra.

Anders approached it. “What is this?” he asked. “A shrine, of some sort? To a sister, or lover?”

Hawke didn’t reply because she was too busy searching around for clues. She found crumpled letters and a few books— on necromancy, which filled Hawke’s heart with a clenching sort of cold fear. She picked one of the books up, noticed blood stains on it, and then dropped it immediately. “We need to find her. Now.” She turned to Gascard. “You’re still tracking him?”

“He’s nearby,” said Gascard. He held up the vial of blood. It was glowing brightly. “But I need to ask something of you.”

“Do you think we have time?” Hawke snapped. “Ask me your fucking questions later.” Beside her, Shadow growled at him.

Gascard didn’t move. “When we find this man, I insist that you let me talk to him first.”

“Like _fuck_ I’ll do that.” Hawke stepped forward so she was standing close to him, staring him down.

He stared right back at her and narrowed his eyes. “I have business with him. And I will conduct my business.”

Hawke realized what that meant. “You _know_ this asshole?” Her voice was utterly incredulous and it was only that confusion that kept her from killing him on the spot.

Gascard, perhaps seeing what was coming, took a step backward. “You don’t want to fight me. I think you will find that I am an experienced blood mage.”

In one fluid motion, Hawke pulled a dagger from her belt and buried it deep in Gascard’s neck, and he fell with a gurgle. “I think _you_ will find,” she said as she ripped the dagger out of his throat, “That I don’t give a shit.” She snatched up the glowing red vial he’d been holding and handed it to Anders. “You know how these work?”

“Yes,” said Anders, who was throughly unfazed by what had just occurred. “Follow me. I think we’re close.”

 

—

 

 

> The number of fights and scuffles Hawke got into as a youth bordered on the obscene. The details of which fight was her first had long since been lost to time. But a lot of kids, some of which were innocent and some of which were not quite so innocent, were certainly on the receiving end of her temper and thus her fists. Once a month or so she’d come home with a bloody nose, and her parents would take her aside and wipe her clean and ask if she’d been fighting again. “Maybe,” she’d mumble.
> 
> “You can’t keep getting into fights, sweetheart,” Malcolm said once.
> 
> “I know. But they were picking on Carver and Bethy.”
> 
> “And were they doing that because of something you started?”
> 
> Hawke shrugged. “I ‘unno.”
> 
> Malcolm chuckled.
> 
> Leandra finished wiping Hawke’s nose. “I suppose at least you’ve got a reason to get into fights now,” she said. “That’s an improvement over not having one at all.”
> 
> “Indeed,” said Malcolm. He smiled at her, and Hawke smiled back, and she felt as though her father was giving her a secret stamp of approval. He trusted her to do the right thing. Even if that meant getting into a fight sometimes.

 

—

 

Hawke shoved the bloodied blade back into her belt without bothering to wipe it clean. She was usually covered in blood anyway, so this didn’t really change anything. She and Shadow followed Anders through yet another tunnel as he held the vial high and it glowed brighter and brighter still—

—and then they came out the other end and were blindsided by a rage demon.

A rage demon, though, is no match for a Hawke in all her fury, and she and Anders disposed of it in seconds and then before she had a chance to recover, she heard a strange, scratchy laughter from up ahead. “There you are,” the voice said, and Hawke threw her head up to see a man in mage robes, his back turned to them. “Leandra was so certain you’d come.”

“Tell me where she is.” Hawke had her staff in her hand and she wanted, more than anything, to kill the man standing in front of her, but if he had information she would have to restrain herself. She heard whispers at the edges of her mind, unwelcome visitors promising retribution and leaving behind traces of the Fade. And she pushed them down, as she always did, but this time it was particularly difficult to do so. Anders was at her side, though, and his eyes had a blue glow to them and he smelled faintly of lyrium, and that was immensely grounding and reassuring.

“Why should I?” The man turned around now to face them. His expression was… happy? Almost rapturous, even, and it unsettled Hawke and she clutched her staff tighter. “You cannot understand,” he continued, “Your mother’s true purpose. Now she is a part of something greater.”

Hawke’s anger was turning to a sickly fear creeping through her. But Anders was still there, Justice singing in sparks in his eyes, and Shadow was growling, and together they bolstered her courage. “Spare me the demented rambling,” she said as she gritted her teeth.

The man turned to look at something on a chair that was facing away from her. “I searched far and wide, you know,” he said. “I found her fingers, and her hair… and finally, I found her face.”

This was a dream. Or something. It couldn’t be real. None of this is real none of this is oh Maker none of this can be real but no it’s real and someone— or something— stood up from the chair and turned to face them and between the dead eyes and the deathly pale skin and the gruesome bloodied stitches and the putrid stench of decay it was her mother, somehow, stumbling towards her, and Hawke couldn’t stand and she couldn’t see but Anders cast some sort of spell, filling her with enough of an adrenaline rush to keep her upright, and the man was summoning demons and Shadow was on them, snarling, and Anders, Anders was lit up like a star and he was on them, and the whispers of rage were at Hawke’s mind again and this time, this time she let them teeter there on a dangerous edge and she let out a cry and fire and ice and lightning burst from her in every direction because she was a storm herself, she was the greatest storm the world had ever known. And she couldn’t think, she couldn’t think because the demons in her mind were thinking for her and she was holding them at bay, she _was_ , but only just.

She was a weapon of pure destruction, an artist of chaos and the Fade was her medium, and once she was done with everything that the man had summoned she launched herself at him and there were many, many things she could have done with him but she chose to crush his skull with sheer energy the likes of which she had never mustered before. The man lasted only a few seconds beneath Hawke’s raw unshackled fury before a crunching sound declared the deed done and he fell to the ground, a bloodied pulp where his head had been, and then Hawke whirled on the demons inside her mind and stared them all down with the very same anger she had taken from them just moments before and they all scattered, terrified.

Hawke’s mind was dark, dark. There might have still been demons lurking at the corners, somewhere— she couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell because she couldn’t think. It was as if there was a void where her thoughts were supposed to be, sucking everything into it. She was vaguely aware of Anders nearby, and of her dog letting out a concerned whine, but then she saw what remained of her mother, stumbling towards her. “Mother!” she gasped.

Leandra fell into Hawke’s arms, and Hawke knelt down gently. Her mother looked up at her with milky eyes that were already half-dead. “I knew you would come,” she said, and offered a weak smile.

Hawke’s eyes filled with tears. “I… you know me,” she said, and her voice cracked. “I’ve always got to save the day.” She was torn between wanting to look away, to shut her eyes, and wanting to stare at her mother as long as she could— because she knew, perhaps instinctively, that she didn’t have much time left.

Anders knelt down beside her, his seasoned healer’s hands feeling Leandra’s arms and placing the back of his hand on her forehead gently, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. His magic was keeping her alive.”

“Shh, it’s alright.” Leandra was still looking up at her daughter. “Don’t fret, darling. That man would’ve kept me trapped in here, but now, I’m free. I’ll get to see Bethany again… and your father… but you’ll be here alone.”

Hawke shook her head and she wasn’t sure if she was doing it to clear away the tears or to deny what was happening. “I’ll be fine, Mother,” she said, although deep in her heart she wasn’t sure. “I’ve… got Carver.” She forced herself to smile and not think about the fact that she hadn’t seen Carver in years and didn’t know when, or if, she would see him again.

“You’ve always been so strong,” said Leandra. “And I’m so proud of you. I’ve always been proud of you—”

 

—

 

> “I’m so proud of you,” Leandra told Hawke as she showed off all the new commands she had trained their new mabari puppy to obey. “A true Fereldan, you know. Just like your father.”
> 
> Hawke beamed and she and her dog ran off to practice some more.
> 
> Shadow was a part of the family, as spoiled as a guard dog could be. He was still fairly young when Malcolm passed— about a year old— and his mournful howling that night still haunted Hawke’s dreams, sometimes.

 

—

 

“—so proud. I love you.”

She went limp, and Hawke’s mind went numb and beside her, Shadow threw his head back against the darkness and howled.

 

Hawke wasn’t entirely sure how she got home.

But she did, somehow, and as soon as she arrived she shut herself in the bedroom, collapsed into a chair, and stared into the fireplace.

She might have thought that life was cruel or that the Maker was, personally, out to get her, and yet somehow she figured that if either one of those things were the case the result would have been much kinder than what she had just gone through.

_I should have been faster._

_I shouldn’t have left her._

_We should never have come to Kirkwall, we should have stayed in Lothering and let the darkspawn overwhelm us and we could have all died together then._

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door opening and Gamlen letting himself in. Hawke was too numb to care. “Maker,” said Gamlen, and his voice was quivering. “Anders told me what happened. You were right about the flowers and everything. I can’t… I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“Mother wouldn’t want us to dwell on it,” said Hawke, although there was no spirit in her words. She was saying what she was supposed to be saying, and that was all.

“So that’s it, then?” Gamlen said. “We’re just supposed to box up our grief, shove it into a corner? I’m not like you.” The fact that he was, in a way, accusing Hawke of _not grieving_ was something that might have stung if she wasn’t already completely numb. As it was, the comment just washed over here like water over a stone, and she didn’t reply.

Gamlen turned and let out a choked sob. “Why her? Why Leandra?”

That statement actually got through, because the same question kept bubbling up in Hawke’s mind and had been doing so since she’d returned home. Why her? Why had they come so far and survived all this way just for this? But she didn’t have an answer. Hawke wondered, not for the first time that night, why the Maker hadn’t taken her instead. She certainly deserved it. She killed and maimed people on a regular fucking basis. So why hadn’t this happened to her?

She answered Gamlen, flatly. “Mother’s gone. Will knowing why ease the pain?”

Gamlen looked away. “No. I suppose it won’t. It will always seem senseless, won’t it? But tell me you at least took care of whoever did this. Tell me you made them pay.”

Hawke thought back to how she’d crushed the man’s head with her mind and her rage. Somehow, it really should have felt more satisfying than it did at the moment. “He’s dead,” she said.

Gamlen let out a shaky breath. “Well. Knowing that helps a bit, I suppose. Carver will have to be told. I’ll send a letter to the Grey Wardens and hope it gets through.” He turned to head out, but he paused at the door, one hand up on the frame, to look back at her. “Take care, dear.”

Then he was gone and the door was shut and Hawke was alone again.

She genuinely didn’t know how much time passed between then and Anders’ entrance later. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours. At some point she had managed to transfer herself from the chair to the bed, and she was looking at her bloodied outfit with a sort of detached bewilderment when she heard a gentle knock at the door. “Marian,” said a soft voice. “May I come in?”

Hawke wasn’t exactly sure what she said in reply, because all that she heard come out of her mouth was an unintelligible mumble, but Anders must’ve understood it because moments later he was in the room and standing very nearby. “I… I know that nothing I can say will help,” he said gently. “I’m sorry. I’m here, if you need me.”

His kindness was much more than she deserved, oh, she deserved nothing, she deserved to be the one who was dead. She didn’t look up at him and looked down at the floor instead. “I wasn’t fast enough,” she said finally. “I could’ve saved her. If… if I had… if I had just—”

“Marian.” Anders sat down next to her on the bed. “She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

“Really? Because she sure wanted to after—” Hawke couldn’t finish the sentence as she realized, suddenly, that she had lost her entire family and it had almost always been her fault. She squeezed her eyes shut. “You didn’t know my mother very well,” she said finally.

“No. And I’m… sorry I never will.” Anders was being endlessly soft and tender, and Hawke was still thoroughly certain that she didn’t deserve it. Especially because she was…

 

—

 

> Hawke remembered her mother crying when she thought she couldn’t see.
> 
> Because she was a mage.

 

—

 

“Anders,” she said, and she still wasn’t looking at him as he said it. “That man… he was a mage. Doing necromancy and blood magic and…” Hawke’s voice caught in her throat. “If… if he had been locked up, then…” She choked on her words, and then said, “Maybe the templars are right.”

Anders reached up with a loving hand and tilted her head so she was looking over at him. “You know that’s not true,” he said gently.

And he was right, she knew, deep in her heart, because even if she didn’t quite believe it herself she believed _him_ when he said it, and yet still she hated herself and she hated everything and before she really knew what she was doing she pushed her head against Anders’ chest and began to cry great racking sobs, and he scooped her up in her arms and pressed his face into her hair, and they didn’t say anything because there was nothing to be said, and Hawke clung to him, never, ever to let go, because he was the only family she had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long to go up! I took a break from the fic for a little while to write [another one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11945343), and then I really sort of... spent a long time banging my head against this chapter because it was tough to write, for various reasons. But special thank you to against stars for helping me come up with ideas a lot of the super sweet vignettes that appeared here SORRY THEY HAD TO GET SHOVED INTO SUCH A DEPRESSING CHAPTER.
> 
> As always thank you for reading!!


	26. Guide You Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke mourns, and Anders has questions. These two things are not related, don't worry!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads-up, the ending gets explicit.

Hawke spent most of the next day in bed, alternating between crying and sleeping fitfully. Anders refused to go to his clinic, and Hawke had no strength to argue with him, so she let him hold her and stroke her hair and get her food, which she picked at reluctantly. He never stopped being whatever she needed him to be, at times a friend and lover, talking to her soothingly, but other times just a warm body to prop herself up against while she cried. She still felt like shit, and she was still quite sure that she didn’t deserve a single bit of the love and kindness that Anders was showing her, but she was also in no condition to object, and nor did she want to, so she just accepted it.

She felt a tiny bit better by the next day. Oh, she still hated herself. But when Anders said he was going to stay home with her all day again she insisted that he go to his clinic for at least a few hours, and despite his many vocal objections to this idea he finally relented. Hawke attempted to occupy herself while he was gone, figuring that forcing herself back to a normal routine would probably be the best way to move on. But so many little things reminded her of her mother that she eventually had to stop and she resorted to sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, cuddling an equally despondent Shadow.

That was when Merrill dropped by. She was holding something covered by some cloth. “Oh!” Merrill jumped a bit at seeing Hawke on the floor. “I didn’t expect you there. Hawke, I heard about… what happened. I… don’t think much will help, but I made something for you anyway? Here.” She pulled the cloth away from what was, in fact, a plate of cookies. Each cookie was shaped like some sort of little animal. Merrill sat herself down on the floor next to Hawke and put the plate down between them. “I know I’m not very good at many things,” said Merrill, “But I know how make some food, at least. And I think that eating helps, sometimes? Someone used to say that back at my clan. Oh, but maybe that’s not how humans do it? I’m sorry, in that case.”

Hawke smiled despite herself. “It’s very sweet of you, Merrill,” she said. She unhooked her arms from Shadow’s neck and reached down and took a cookie. “What sort of animal is this?”

“Oh, there are different ones,” said Merrill. “That one you’re holding is a halla. But I also made some shaped like dogs, and I made a cat one for Anders.” She pointed to a striped cookie. “It’s a tabby.”

Merrill’s concern was touching. Hawke ate the cookie she was holding; it was tasty. “These are good,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like them! I’m always a little nervous with my own cooking because sometimes I accidentally set things on fire. Not that I’m scared of fire. Not really, I mean. I am a mage, you know. Oh, am I rambling? I’m sorry.”

Hawke smiled at her again. It surprised her, a little, how Merrill simply being there and talking was helping a bit. “How did you find out?” she asked. “About…”

“Oh.” Merrill’s voice turned a bit sad. “Aveline knew first. Because she’s the Guard-Captain, and the guards were the ones who had to see to everything afterward. She feels awful, you know. She came to the Hanged Man and told Varric, and Varric told all of us. He said not to bother you too much, but… I thought cookies always help. And I’m right! I think. Well, I hope they helped, anyway.”

“They helped,” Hawke assured her. The thought of how her friends would figure out what had happened, and would probably proceed to make sure she was okay, hadn’t even crossed her mind. It made sense, of course, but she’d been too preoccupied with much darker thoughts to think much about anyone else. She probably looked awful, she thought fleetingly, before realizing that she didn’t care. “Thank you,” she said. “For coming by.”

“Of course, Hawke!” Merrill beamed. “I’m so glad that I helped a little.”

Isabela was Hawke’s next visitor. She let herself in of her own accord and was immediately concerned, pulling Hawke into her arms and squeezing her. “Hawke, darling, I’m so sorry to hear about everything. You need to let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay?”

Hawke let her friend embrace her; Isabela’s hugs were always fierce and warm. “I don’t know if there’s a drink strong enough for this,” she said, and she smiled weakly.

Isabela pulled away and looked at Hawke at arms’ length. “No, probably not. But you are always welcome at the Hanged Man, of course. Or anywhere else, really. Did you need me to help you with anything? I can wash the dishes. Well. I can figure out how to wash the dishes, I’m sure. It can’t be that difficult, right?”

“I think Orana has got that covered,” said Hawke, “But I appreciate it, truly.”

“Alright,” said Isabela, “But you have to let me know if you need anything. _Anything_ at all. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Hawke.

The others visited too. Varric was nearly speechless when he came over. “Shit. I’m just… shit. I’m sorry,” was all he managed at first. But then the two of them sat down together and had a talk, and Varric listened as Hawke told as much of her story as she could and then he hugged her and gave her the best words of wisdom he could. Fenris stopped by and offered his condolences, telling her that she was always welcome to drop by his home whenever she wanted— “I… know it’s a bit of a mess, but you can always come and talk. I enjoy talking to you,” he said— and, Hawke noticed, he was very careful not to say anything about mages. Sebastian even dropped in later, although Hawke hadn’t seen him in months. He offered to say a prayer for Leandra, and although a part of Hawke bristled at the idea she let him do it anyway, because she wasn’t in the mood to turn him down.

Aveline was the last to arrive, and she was by far the most apologetic. “I feel awful, Hawke,” she said, looking into her eyes with concern. “I should have taken Ser Emeric more seriously. I just… this is all my fault.”

“It’s not,” said Hawke, although she wasn’t saying that to alleviate Aveline’s concern as much as she was saying that because she was still convinced it was her own fault.

“I just… I know what it’s like to lose someone that you love,” said Aveline. “And it’s… it’s not easy, and I know that there’s nothing I can say that will help make you feel any better. But… if there is one piece of advice I can give you. It’s sort of a story about my father, actually.” She looked away, but then looked back at Hawke. “I’m sorry. I’m making this about myself, aren’t I?”

“It’s alright,” said Hawke. “It would be… kind of a relief, actually, to think about something that’s… not… you know.”

Aveline nodded and smiled gently. “My father is the one who trained me to fight. He pushed me hard to get me into King Cailan’s army. But… do you know what I remember about him, most of all? He read to me. Just… children’s tales, about knights and dragons. But I loved them, and he always let me turn the pages. He let me be the one to control the story. Later… years later… he died of the wasting in a Denerim ward. I read to him, then. I had to take his hand to turn the pages. And I couldn’t tell if he was just too weak, or if it was the old game. He smiled at that, though.” Aveline glanced down. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I suppose I’m trying to say… don’t let anyone else tell you when to move on. Take their hand and say ‘my choice.’”

  


When Anders came back home later, Hawke tried to hold herself together, and actually did admirably at it until he pulled her into his arms and his simple act of affection caused her to break, and she clung to his coat and pressed her face into his chest and blinked back tears. He murmured soft words to her and kissed her forehead. “When was the last time you had a bath, love?” He asked as he picked something out of her hair. Probably dried blood.

Hawke shrugged. She wanted to say _it’s been a while_ but nothing really came out when she tried to open her mouth.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Anders walked her to the washroom. Once there, he set up a bath for her, using a quick magic spell to heat the water rather than wait for the stove. Then he shrugged off his coat, so he was just in the simple shirt and trousers that he wore underneath, and then approached Hawke and gently undressed her. She felt numb as she stood there and let him remove her clothes. They had, of course, removed each others’ clothes multiple times before, but it had always been under a happy and joyful premise, and this was different. Still, it was intimate and comfortable, and Anders swept Hawke into his arms for a brief moment and held her against him, wordlessly letting her know that she had him and that she was safe, and then he helped lower her into the bath.

The bath was warm and comfortable and despite how hollow she felt inside, the water felt good against her skin regardless. Anders dipped a bar of soap and a washcloth into the water and gently washed her, and then lathered the soap into her hair and massaged her scalp. They were quiet as they shared the moment, until Hawke asked, suddenly, “Does it ever stop hurting?”

Anders paused, his hands in Hawke’s hair. He didn’t have to ask to know what she was talking about. “No,” he said. “But it… gets tolerable. You can look back on memories and smile.”

“Mm,” said Hawke. She felt immensely grateful, suddenly, to have Anders with her no matter what, and she leaned back into his touch and he finished washing her hair.

Once it was all done, he helped her out of the tub and dried her with a towel, and then fetched her some clean robes. She dressed herself, and then Anders tilted his head a bit and smiled. “Do you feel a little better?” he asked.

“A little bit,” said Hawke.

“I know I can’t do much,” said Anders, “But… you were there for me after Karl. And I’ll be here for you now.”

He was much to good to her, Hawke thought, and she pressed herself against him and he held her.

That night they lay in bed together, and they didn’t _do_ anything, but that was fine. Hawke wanted to be held to Anders’ chest, and she was, and she listened to his heartbeat and remembered the scar there, and she took comfort in knowing that if Anders could survive a blow to his heart— then so could she.

  


Hawke decided to rejoin society the next day. She didn’t want to be seen as weak, and she didn’t want people to feel sorry for her. So she went down to the Hanged Man— with Anders in tow, for emotional support— to see if anyone needed any jobs done.

“As it turns out, there is something I could use a hand with,” said Varric from his spot at his desk. “And Merrill’s been asking for you, too. She said she wanted to wait until she knew you were doing better.” Varric eyed her. “Hawke. Are you sure you’re up for this already?”

“Yes. Well. Maybe. Probably. We won’t know unless we try.” Hawke was babbling, and she knew it, and she was doing it to keep her emotions at bay.

And Varric, she was sure, probably noticed, but he was nice enough not to mention it. “So. Remember Bartrand?”

“Your dickbag brother? Yeah, I remember him. What about him? Can we kill him yet?”

“Maybe. I have a lead on him.” Varric leaned back in his chair. “Supposedly he’s got a house in Hightown. There are packages there being delivered to his name, anyway. I thought we could, I dunno. Stop by and pay him a visit one of these evenings.”

“You doing anything tonight?” Hawke asked.

Varric chuckled. “Right to the point. I love it. Alright, we’ll meet up here tonight after dinner. In the meantime, I’d suggest you go check up on Merrill. She’s been worried sick about you, anyway.”

  


“Oh! Hawke! And Anders! By the Dread Wolf, I wasn’t expecting company.” Merrill was nearly vibrating in excitement and nervous energy upon their arrival. “My place isn’t clean at all! But it’ll have to do, I suppose. Oh, Anders, I hope you liked the cookie I made you?”

Anders smiled. “It was almost too cute to eat.”

“Oh good,” said Merrill with some relief. Then she jumped up again. “Or is that bad?”

“It’s good,” Anders reassured her.

Hawke decided to get right to the point of things, primarily to keep the subject from changing to sympathy. “So, Merrill,” she said. “I heard you needed my help?”

Merrill nodded. “It’s about that mirror I have. Do you remember? The broken one?”

Hawke remembered a rather horrifying looking object that may or may not have been a mirror. “Yeah,” she said. “What about it?”

“Well. I’ve been thinking, and I think I know how to fix it. But I’m going to need a special tool called an Arulin’holm. My Keeper has it, up on Sundermount. And…” Merrill looked down at her hands. “I don’t really like talking to my Keeper, alone? Not anymore, anyway. She sort of… intimidates me, and then I get my words all mixed up.” She looked back up at Hawke, with hopeful eyes. “So I was wondering if perhaps you could go with me? And just. Be there, and help me talk. In case I get too flustered to talk to her.”

Anders spoke up. “Mirror? What mirror?”

Merrill looked over at him. “It’s nothing you need to worry about. It’s just for my clan. I showed Hawke once. And I’m glad I did, because now she can help me.” She looked back over at Hawke. “I mean. If you want to. I don’t want to be any trouble.”

Anders was looking at Hawke questioningly, and she turned and mouthed “later” to him. For now, getting out of Kirkwall sounded like an enticing idea. “Of course I’ll help,” she said. “Did you want to go now?”

“Now?” Merrill blinked. “Oh! Yes, of course we can go now. If you’re ready, I mean. I don’t mean to rush you.”

“It’s alright, Merrill,” Hawke said, smiling a bit. “Yes, I’m ready. Shall we?”

  


So the three of them headed to Sundermount. Merrill would often wander off trail a bit to gather ingredients for potions and things, and whenever she did so, Anders would speak up. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” He asked Hawke. “Helping her with whatever ritual she wants to do. You do know she is a blood mage, right?”

Hawke loved him, she really did, with her whole heart— her dear, ridiculous, and unceasingly persistent man— but he really could be a bit of an ass when he wanted to be. “Merrill’s not going to do anything stupid,” she said. “Well. She might, but she won’t do anything catastrophic. She’s smarter than people think.”

“She’s trying to summon demons,” Anders pressed. “I don’t think she understands just how disastrous that could be.”

“I know what I’m doing,” said a voice right next to them suddenly. Merrill, it seemed, had sneaked up on them while they were talking. If she was upset, she didn’t show it; she was speaking plainly, as she tended to do. “I know more about spirits than you do.”

“I’m possessed,” said Anders. “Can you even imagine what that’s like? That’s the road you’re headed down if you keep this up.”

Merrill looked at him with an expression that might have been pity or might have been curiosity, or perhaps a bit of both— Hawke couldn’t tell. “Anders,” she said gently. “You _are_ a spirit. That’s why this world confuses and frustrates you. You don’t have to be afraid of other spirits. You just have to be wary of them, that’s all.”

And that statement effectively ended the conversation, if Anders’ sudden wide eyes were any indication. They were quiet the rest of the way, Anders particularly so, and Hawke found him suddenly inscrutable. His relationship with Justice was one that she knew she would probably never be able to fully understand, as much as she loved them both— if there even was a both, which she increasingly doubted. The best she could do, she figured, was to listen to him if he ever wanted to talk about it.

And he did, later.

The trip to Sundermount did not go particularly well for Merrill. She got the device she wanted, but not until after a task set for her by the Keeper which involved the death of one of her clanmates. Hawke felt utterly useless as she tried to comfort her later, her words all hollow, because she was still in mourning herself.

That evening, Hawke, Anders, and Varric all dropped by the house that Bartrand was supposedly hiding in. Hawke was there specifically to kill him, and she would have, too, if not for the fact that Bartrand had at some point become a husk of a man, his mind all but gone. The lyrium idol, it seemed, had somehow twisted him into a pathetic, gibbering mess, and ultimately Hawke couldn’t do the deed and she shoved him aside and Anders cast a spell that let him speak sense for a few miserable moments. He’d sold the idol to someone, though he didn’t say who. “Varric, brother,” he babbled. “You were always the good one. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Varric mumbled. He looked at Hawke, and Hawke looked back at him, and as much as they both still hated him, they knew that they wouldn’t be killing him.

They took him to a safehouse that Anders knew of, a place for people who had reached a point like this and could no longer be helped, and then they returned to the Hanged Man. The mood was dreary. What Hawke had hoped would be a distraction from her own troubles had turned into having to face yet more tragedy. Anders was moody and withdrawn on top of that, and by the time they finally returned home late that night Hawke wanted to do little more than crawl into bed and forget the world and hopefully fall sleep as fast as possible.

Oh, but Anders— Anders sat forlornly at the foot of their bed, and she knew he was trying not to bother her with his own problems, but he always managed to look rather like a lost kitten when he was upset, and Hawke suddenly very much wanted to both give and receive comfort and she pulled her armor off and slipped into her robes and then sat herself on the bed next to him and she leaned over and rested her head on his feathered shoulder.

“Hawke,” Anders said suddenly. The use of her surname was both jarring and alarming. Was he trying to distance himself from her?

“I’m yours, love,” Hawke said softly, and she kissed his neck. He wasn’t getting rid of her. It wasn’t possible.

Anders smiled faintly at that and put a hand on hers. Good. He turned his head, so his face was very close to Hawke’s. “I don’t deserve you,” he said.

She _could_ have said “No, you deserve better,” which was her usual reply to that statement, but instead her answer was to lean forward and press her lips to his and kiss him. Anders moaned beneath her kiss; he was aching for contact and Hawke, suddenly very hungry for him, pushed him down onto the bed. The front of her robes were open and she was wearing nothing underneath, but Anders, rather frustratingly, was still in his coat. No matter. She’d deal with those eventually. She leaned down and kissed his jaw. “I need you,” she said.

Anders shuddered. “Oh… Marian,” he gasped.

There it was. It still thrilled her all these months later when he used her first name, and she didn’t know if that thrill would ever quite go away. She hoped it never did. She kissed his jaw again and put a hand in his hair. “Anders,” she murmured.

“Marian, I don’t know what I am anymore,” Anders blurted out suddenly. He looked away. His body was betraying him, happily quivering under Hawke’s every touch, but his eyes showed a pain deep within before he closed them. “I… I’ve been thinking about what Merrill said. What am I? Am I possessed? Am I a spirit? A demon? A… a man who is in over his head? What am I?”

Hawke didn’t move her lips from Anders’ cheek. “You’re a warning before the storm,” she said. “You’re a cause I’d kill for. You are Justice and you are Anders and I love you.” She kissed him again, hungrily, wanting to taste that fierce firestorm inside him, and his response was eager and he tugged her down atop him and for a few moments all was forgotten but their aching thirst for each other, but again Anders eventually pulled away. “Anders,” Hawke whispered to him, concerned.

“Marian.” Anders’ voice was quiet, almost imperceptible. “She was right. I’m so confused. I can’t— this world— I…”

“I know, love.” Hawke stroked his hair, gently, and let him talk. “I know.”

“Everything is unjust, and I… I can’t stop it. I don’t know how.”

“That’s why you need me,” said Hawke. Playing with his hair now reminded of the first time she’d done so, when she’d given him a bath and washed his hair. Back then, there were so many things she’d wanted to say but ultimately hadn’t. But now, she realized… now she could say them. “Anders,” she said to him softly, “Let me be the thunder to your lightning.” She kissed him and then pulled away a bit, her lips hovering right above his. “You can sentence the unjust, and I’ll carry out the executions.”

Anders stared at her in reverent awe for just a moment before they crashed together again, Hawke unbuckling the straps on his outfit and Anders desperately working to shrug the coat off, and then she removed her own robe and she was atop him, straddling him, Anders digging into the blankets and sheets with his fingers as Hawke pushed him inside herself and then she rode him like the storm they both were, Anders moaning and writhing beneath her. They needed each other with a need that was physical and emotional and somehow more, as though their souls wouldn’t be complete without the other’s imprinted atop theirs, and endless declarations of love and praise fell from Hawke’s mouth right up until Anders shuddered and bucked and cried out her name, and Hawke rode him still until she was done shortly after, her breath gasping and coming in spasms, and then she collapsed on him and took his head in her hands. “Anders, I’m—” she breathed him in and covered him in kisses. “I’m going to fucking dismember anyone who ever tries to hurt you.”

Anders let out a sort of huffing chuckle. His face and chest were flushed and his eyes were gleaming. “Let’s hope no one tries to hurt me then.”

Hawke buried her face into his neck, still kissing him, still unable to get her fill of that transcendent soul he had. “You’re mine,” she mumbled into him. “And I’m yours.”

“Mmm. What was that you called us? A storm? Or an executioner, I think you said.” Anders was holding her tightly to him, kissing her everywhere his lips could reach.

“Only for you,” said Hawke. “Only for the Cause of Mages.”

They held each other in loving silence for a moment, Anders’ arm wrapped tightly around Hawke’s chest as she lightly traced patterns on it with a lazy finger, and then Anders pressed his nose into Hawke’s hair and she heard him say “I never thought a world so unjust could be home to a love so beautiful.” The way he said it was somehow odd, and Hawke turned to look up at him, and his eyes were blue with the Fade. He looked down at her, his eyes still a brilliant azure. “I also never thought either a Circle mage or a spirit could love like this… and yet, here I am.”

“Here you are,” Hawke agreed, smiling. She was happy, and so was Anders, and after a moment the blue glow faded from his eyes, but the love never did.

She felt something tugging at her neck. It was her father’s signet ring, the one she’d put onto a chain and usually wore underneath her shirt. She had an idea, suddenly, and she reached up and unfastened the chain, slipped the ring off, and then gently pushed it onto Anders’ ring finger. “There,” she said.

“Um. Marian?” Anders was perplexed. “Is this…”

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” said Hawke. “Mostly I just wanted you to have something so you know you’re never alone.” She took his hand and kissed the ring. “But I mean. If you want it to be something else, too, I wouldn’t complain.”

Anders pulled her close again. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he mumbled into her hair.

Hawke closed her eyes and pressed herself into Anders’ warmth. Maybe, just maybe, things would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Hawke just put a ring on it. There's a [mod that does this too](http://pikestaff.tumblr.com/post/165415097876/so-i-was-playing-some-dragon-age-and-happened-to) so I had to make them match. Thank you for reading, as always!


	27. Vengeance Is Me Speaking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world always needs Hawke, doesn't it? She's off to the rescue again, although she and Anders try to love each other during the downtime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a bit of quick smut towards the beginning of this chapter.

A few weeks later, Hawke was interrogating a man at her estate.

It wasn’t her idea, granted. It was Hubert’s.

Apparently some man had been caught giving away details of mine shipments to their competitors, and Hubert wanted details. His idea of getting details involved beating him into a pulp, which Hawke knew would probably not give him his desired results, so she sent him out of the room and decided to talk to the man herself.

He was gaunt and wretched looking and his hairstyle and accent both instantly pegged him as Fereldan. Hawke was immediately sympathetic towards him just for that. She knew from first-hand experience exactly what it was like to be an immigrant, and that she’d been luckier than most— Gamlen may have been an ass, but at least he’d gotten a roof over their head. But the poor man was clearly terrified and he almost seemed to shrink into the chair. “Please,” he said. “I know you. You’re the oldest Hawke kid, aren’t you? I knew you since you was young in Lothering. I knew your mum’s family, and I knew your pop, Maker grant him rest. Us Lothering folk should stick together. Or us Fereldans, at least.”

It was an appeal for sympathy that he really didn’t need to give, because Hawke was already on his side. She looked down at him. “Look,” she said, and her voice was about as soft as it would ever get when she was talking to someone who wasn’t Anders— which wasn’t actually very soft, but it was better than nothing. “I want to help. Alright? But you’ve… got to admit, you’ve kind of gotten yourself into a mess.”

The man hung his head. “I know,” he said. “Before the Blight, my family had a good life in Lothering. Clean home, fertile land, good friends. Then we moved to Kirkwall and now we live in a hovel. People spit on us when they hear our accent. Some days we go hungry. And that’s bad enough for me, but I’ve got a wife and a son! My own life’s not worth much, but they deserve a better life.”

Hawke felt for him, because she had been there. It wasn’t her place to judge what he’d done when he’d no doubt considered all his options and made the only real choice to ensure the survival of those who depended on him. So no, she wasn’t upset and she wasn’t going to hand him over to Hubert. She would, however, have to come up with an alternate plan. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Sabin, messere,” the man replied.

“Sabin,” said Hawke. “You do know that the only real way to Hubert’s heart is gold.”

The man looked down. “I… please, Messere. I don’t have any money. If I did, I’d—”

“I know,” said Hawke. “I’ve got money.”

“What?” Sabin looked back up at her.

Hawke pulled a coin purse out of her outfit and emptied a good chunk of the contents into her palm, which she then handed to Sabin. “Tell him it’s your life savings. The man will waste five minutes to pick two coppers off the ground, so trust me, it’ll work.”

“Wow.” Sabin’s eyes widened as he looked at the shiny golden coins in his hand. “I… I don’t know how to repay you. Thank you! I always knew your family was a good one.”

Hawke stood aside and let the man leave the room, following behind him and crossing her arms as he begged Hubert to take the money rather than his life. Hubert made a fuss about it, but eventually relented as Hawke had predicted, and Sabin thanked both of them profusely and then ran off.

Hubert turned and faced Hawke. “He told me he was working for a man named Brekker. Did you find out where this Brekker is?”

“I don’t need him to find that out,” said Hawke, which was true. She had enough contacts in Darktown. “I’ll take care of it.”

“So you didn’t get any new information out of him and we let him go?” Hubert huffed.

“He reimbursed you for a good chunk of whatever got stolen,” Hawke shrugged. “I don’t know why you’re bitching.”

Hubert mumbled something. “Just… take care of Brekker,” he said finally, and then left.

Hawke let out a breath she’d been holding in. She was tense, and she rolled her head back and forth to work out a kink in her neck. That’s when she heard the door upstairs open with a click, and she smiled, because she knew what that meant.

Anders tended to go through periods of time where he would bury himself in his work, writing his manifesto for several uninterrupted hours or spending his entire day in the sewer, throwing himself into his Mage Underground, before finally crashing into their bed at night and falling asleep almost instantly, just to repeat the whole process again the next morning. These periods were usually followed by a handful of days where he’d become a lovesick puppy, unable to keep his hands and lips off of Hawke. And while Hawke never, _ever_ once resented the days when he was busy— for that was something she’d willingly signed onto when she took him into her life, and something she dearly loved about him— it still thrilled her every time he was in one of his more snuggly moods.

That was the case today. Anders had spent most of the day at home in his house robes, writing every now and again but mostly pining for Hawke while she’d been off conducting business elsewhere. And now that she was back, and finally alone, he seemed to want to take full advantage of it. He padded up behind her softly, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her neck. “Did you save the day again, love?”

“Mmm.” Hawke turned her head so she could kiss him. “Poor sap was from Ferelden. Least I could do was ensure he didn’t die horribly at the hands of some asshole Orlesian. No one deserves that.”

Anders chuckled, his arms still around her tightly. “You are wonderful. Did you know that?” He kissed her cheek, and then worked his way down to her neck again. He was clearly feeling amorous, and Hawke lived for it. “I’d burn the whole world down for you if you asked,” he murmured. Another kiss on her neck.

“You’d burn the whole world down to free the mages,” Hawke said, twisting in Anders’ arms so she could press her face to his. “And that’s exactly why I love you.”

He kissed her at that, passionately, and she slipped her hands inside his robes and wrapped her arms around his bare skin and his hands reached up to fiddle with the armor she was still wearing, and they stumbled sort of awkwardly to the wall next to the writing desk. They were entirely too engrossed in each other to notice the new letter on the desk; Anders was shoved up against the wall, and Hawke was pinning his hands above his head while she, half-undressed, nibbled at his lip. But then Hawke decided said desk should be cleared off for a more just purpose than it was currently being used for, and she turned to shove all the letters aside and that’s when she noticed the new one, sealed with the Viscount’s symbol. “Fuck,” she mumbled.

“Hmm?” Anders pushed himself off of the wall and soon had his hands on Hawke again, undoing her belt buckle.

“It looks like the Viscount has more chores for me,” said Hawke. “And you know how I’ve got to keep him happy, lest the templars suddenly decide I’ve outlived my usefulness.”

Anders made a bit of a face at the mention of templars. “You know, you’d think they’d get bored of oppressing people eventually.”

“You’d think,” said Hawke. She tossed the letter aside with the others; she didn’t want to end the moment on such a sour note. She turned and cupped Anders’ head in her hands. “I love you,” she said. “I won’t let them touch you, and we’ll make it so they don’t touch anyone else ever again either.”

Anders stumbled forward to press his mouth against hers, their hearts pounding together. Hawke sat herself up on the desk and laid down, her legs over the side, and Anders knelt down right there and buried his face between her thighs. There he pleasured her with his tongue until she was gasping and writhing and bucking into his mouth, and then he stood and she sat up and wrapped her legs around him and he wrapped his arms around her and minutes later they shuddered and moaned as Hawke kissed her name off of Anders’ lips and he kissed his name off of hers, and finally, high from pleasure, they pressed their noses into each other’s neck to catch their breaths. Hawke smiled. “Orana or Bodahn could have walked in at any time,” she said. “Scandalous.”

“I like living on the edge,” said Anders. He nipped her earlobe and kissed her cheek.

The two of them held each other, each half-undressed and enjoying the moment, but the thought of the Viscount’s letter was now stuck in the back of Hawke’s mind, and she knew it wouldn’t go away until she dealt with it. So, reluctantly, she untangled herself from Anders’ warm arms and pulled her pants back on, and then reached for the letter and opened it. As she’d suspected, the Viscount wanted to see her as soon as possible. The letter advised her to hurry, as it was about his son. Of course it was. Damn kid always seemed to be getting into trouble.

Anders smiled wryly. “As proud of you as I am for being so indispensable to the city, I do wish I could have more of you to myself.”

Hawke kissed him; that crooked smile of his was always far too endearing for her to resist. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  


The Viscount drummed his hands on the table as he explained the situation to Hawke (and by extension Anders, as he went everywhere she did). “I am in your debt for saving Seamus a while back,” he told her. “Unfortunately he has chosen to squander that life and convert to the Qun.”

“You can do that?” Hawke asked.

“Apparently so. And now he’s in the Qunari compound. By choice. Please, Serah Hawke. Convince him to come home.”

“I… am not exactly a fan of the Qun,” Hawke said, “But isn’t he of age? Why can’t you just let him do what he wants to do? It would certainly take a lot less effort.”

The Viscount looked up at her. “If this were a different time, Serah Hawke, I might agree. But as it stands, these are delicate matters. The office must remain strong. At best, my opponents will claim that I am in Qunari hands. And at worst, I lose my son. Please. If he’ll listen to anyone, he’ll listen to you. He’s been inspired by you.”

“Inspired by me?”

“By your work for the city as… as a mage,” said the Viscount rather carefully. “You’re proving that people who don’t fit the mold of an average Kirkwall citizen can make a difference. And regardless of what many people might think of that, Seamus found a positive role model in you.”

Hawke thought it was odd that anyone would ever find _her_ to be a positive role model, and she was still thinking on this as Anders took her hand and squeezed it. That brought her back to reality. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll go get him.”

“Thank you,” said the Viscount. “You are, as always, indispensable to the city.”

  


Hawke decided to pick up Aveline before doing anything else. It was easy for things to quickly go south when the Qunari were involved, and she decided she’d rather be safe than sorry. The Arishok was waiting in his usual spot when they arrived. “Serah Hawke,” he said.

Hawke got straight to the point. “I’m here for the Viscount’s son,” she said.

“Are you?” The Arishok looked down at the ground for a moment, as if in thought, and then he looked back up at Hawke. “For years, the people of this city have spread lies and rumors about us. And yet still, bas come to me groveling for a purpose. The Qun grants them this purpose. This son has made a choice. You will not deny him that choice.”

“That sounds handy for you,” said Hawke. “You know. Free sword fodder.”

“It is a time of peace, Hawke,” said the Arishok. “He is not a prisoner. He is not even here. He went to his father.”

“Wait, what?” Hawke was confused.

“They are meeting at the Chantry,” the Arishok continued evenly. “A last, pointless appeal, I assume.”

Anders spoke up. “The Viscount would involve the Chantry?”

“No,” said Hawke. “But we know exactly who would.”

“Mother Petrice.” Anders said the name with distaste.

“Mm-hmm,” said Hawke.

The Arishok was speaking again. “Do be aware, Hawke. If she has threatened someone under my command again, there is only one response.”

“I’ve had enough of her _several_ times over,” said Hawke. “So don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”

“Good,” the Arishok rumbled. “For I will suffer only one outcome. The demand of the Qun is clear.”

“The demand of my fucking fists is clear,” Hawke mumbled, and she turned and left.

  


Hawke and the others rushed to the Chantry as fast as they could and Hawke was actually running as she arrived and shoved the doors open. Seamus was inside, kneeling at the altar. He seemed to be alone, but something about the whole scene was somehow off. Maybe it was the way Seamus was…

…positioned?

…propped?

…it looked almost deliberate, and a sinking feeling hit Hawke’s stomach as she rushed up to the altar and knelt beside the boy.

He fell over. He was dead.

“My my, Serah Hawke. Look at what you’ve done.”

Hawke stood up and whirled around; it was Mother Petrice, and she was flanked by an odd mix of about a dozen people— mercenaries, commoners, even a templar. Out of the corner of her vision she saw Anders raise his staff and Aveline hold up her shield, but Petrice was talking again.

“Pouncing upon the Viscount’s son, a repentant convert, here in the Chantry? A crime with no excuse. Your Qunari masters will finally answer.”

“So you killed a boy just to incite your fucking war?” Hawke was livid. None of this would have happened if she had succeeded in killing her before. “You are a real piece of work, you know.”

“This has been building for a long time,” said Petrice. “And when people learn of this attack, they will rise. Not just zealots or the unknowing, but the true, quiet majority."

“So they’re just lining up to die in a war against the Qunari, now?” Hawke stalled for time as bits of her mind crept out to the Fade for power, saving up her energy.

“To die untested would be the real crime. People need the opportunity to defend faith. Starting with you.”

Her lackeys lunged and Hawke was ready, channeling power from the Fade through her fingertips and sending jolts of piercing electric energy into everyone nearest her. They staggered, and Hawke leaped down the stairs and immediately cast around for Mother Petrice. She seemed to have slipped away— _again_ — and in her absence Hawke turned and made for the templar, because _fuck templars_. This particular templar didn’t seem to be a skilled one. Perhaps he was a new recruit, or perhaps he just wasn’t very bright. Either way, he dropped like a stone when Hawke dodged both his sword and his weak dispel and promptly used the force of gravity to crush his insides.

She whirled around, eyes darting back and forth, a falcon searching for more prey, but Anders and Aveline had already taken care of everyone else.

Then she saw Petrice.

She was accompanied by Grand Cleric Elthina.

Elthina had ice cold eyes and an unnerving stare and Hawke didn’t like her, but she also wasn’t going to attack Petrice while she was right there. Mostly because of the public outcry that it would inevitably cause. She spat blood onto the carpet, though— Chantry or not, she was angry and didn’t care who knew— and she tilted her head up and stared directly at the two women in front of her, unwilling to blink or move an inch.

Petrice was acting innocent. “Do you see, your grace? These traitors, attacking and defiling the Chantry?”

“And all _completely orchestrated_ by you!” Hawke retorted. “Isn’t that a _laugh?_

“Don’t you spout your Qunari filth at me!” Petrice screeched. “Or at a hand of the Divine!”

“I have ears, Mother Petrice.” Elthina said it flatly as she turned to look over at her. “The Maker would have me use them.” She turned back to stare at Hawke, and Hawke stared back. Maker, but her eyes were chilling. Hawke wasn’t going to let them get to her. “Tell me,” Elthina said to her, “What happened here?”

“Viscount Dumar’s son is dead. Murdered in your name.”

“I see. I’m sure my name won’t like that. Petrice?”

“Seamus Dumar was a Qunari convert,” said Petrice. She was desperately trying to keep her voice steady. “He came here to repent and was murdered. By _this_ woman!”

“You killed him,” said Hawke, and her voice was a deep growl. “You killed him because you want a fucking war with the fucking Qunari. Because you didn’t want to give him the choice to freely choose what he wants to do. You just love restricting people, like so many other _fucking aspects of your fucking—_ ” Hawke forced herself to pause. She leaned forward a bit and took a few gulping breaths. It… probably wasn’t good to rant about the Chantry to the Grand Cleric. Not when she was trying to win her over. After a moment, she straightened herself up so she could glare at the two of them again. “Petrice is the culprit. You know this just as well as I do.”

“It… it could not be allowed.” Petrice turned to Elthina and then back to Hawke, and Hawke wasn’t sure who she was talking to. “How many would be tempted?”

“As many as would want to go, I suppose,” said Elthina.

“They deny the Maker!”

“And you,” Elthina turned to Petrice, “Diminish him, even as you claim His side. Andraste did not volunteer for the flame.” She turned back to Hawke, her eyes flitting briefly to Aveline as she did so. “Serah Hawke. You stand with the Captain of the Guard?”

Hawke nodded.

“The young mother has erred in her judgment. A court will decide her fate. The Chantry respects the law, and so must she.” Elthina turned to head back up the stairs.

“Grand Cleric?” Petrice asked her. There was no response.

Hawke flexed her fingers, talons itching for blood, and stared at her. She wasn’t done yet. As soon as Elthina was out of the room, she was finally going to do what she should have done years ago, and—

_Thwip._

That was an arrow suddenly embedded in Petrice’s chest.

Hawke turned around; there was a Qunari in the doorway. He held up his bow and sent another arrow into Petrice’s skull, and she fell over dead.

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “She was mine to kill,” she said bluntly.

The Qunari looked at her, although she could not decipher his expression. “We protect those of the Qun. We do not abandon our own.”

He left.

Hawke looked back over at the Grand Cleric, she was looking down at them halfway up the steps, and her eyes were so unreadable that she may as well have not had any. “Please. Send for Viscount Dumar.”

And that was all she said before leaving for good.

  


It was about an hour later and Hawke was sitting outside on the Chantry steps. The Viscount had arrived as soon as Aveline had fetched him, and now he was in the building mourning his son. Hawke felt spectacularly useless trying to comfort him then, and it was bringing back memories that were still much, much too fresh, so she left him alone and went for some fresh air.

“Hawke,” said Aveline.

Hawke put her head in her hands. She had failed, again, of that much she was certain. Oh, she wasn’t the one who had killed Seamus, technically, but what was that the Viscount had said? She’d inspired him? She’d inspired him and he’d wound up dead. People always seemed to die because of her, didn’t they? They died, or contracted the Taint, or various other horrible things happened.

“Hawke,” Aveline said again. “I need to talk to you.”

“Not now, Aveline.” Hawke mumbled it into her hands.

Aveline let out a breath. “I… know now probably isn’t the best time. Unfortunately, it’s important. Here, I’ll head to your place and when you return later—”

“Why can’t we do it tomorrow?” Hawke was still groaning into her hands.

“Because it’s about the Arishok and I don’t know how much longer he’s going to wait before he snaps. I’m sorry. I wish things weren’t like this.” Aveline waited a moment, and when Hawke didn’t respond, she left.

Hawke didn’t look up. Her head was still in her hands, and her thoughts were all ones of self-loathing. _Why do I exist? All I do is hurt people._

She heard shuffling and someone seated themselves next to her, and she felt the comforting presence of someone who was a much, much better person than she was. She still didn’t look up, even when Anders spoke. “Hey love,” he said. His voice was gentle and filled with unwavering affection that she knew she didn’t deserve.

“Why does everyone die once they get to know me?” Hawke muttered.

“Sweetheart.” Anders put a hand atop one of Hawke’s and softly pulled it away from her face so he could look at her. She hadn’t been crying, but she thought her eyes might have been red-rimmed regardless, and looking into Anders’ own endlessly loving ones was too much and she looked down. “Marian,” he said to her. “It’s not just you. It’s all of us. It’s Kirkwall. This place is cruel.”

“Bethany wasn’t Kirkwall.”

Anders leaned forward and kissed the side of her face. “The Blight is hardly any kinder than Kirkwall.”

Hawke wasn’t convinced. “Everyone around me ends up dead. You should… you should leave, you should go far away, and—”

“Not happening.” Anders pulled her close to him, now, and Hawke let him do it, because despite it all he was soft and warm and familiar. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said soothingly.

“But what if something happens to you?”

Anders smiled. “You won’t let anything happen to me. At least, that seems to be what you’re very fond of saying, and I believe you.”

Hawke had to admit that she couldn’t rebut that. She may have been an awful human being who caused death and destruction with every step, but she would _die_ before she let anything happen to Anders. The thought was somehow reassuring, and she pressed herself into him. He, at least, loved her regardless. He, at least, saw through the blood and the darkness and all her sharp edges and saw the person beneath.

Anders kissed the top of her head. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home and talk to Aveline.”

  


When they arrived back home, Aveline wasn’t the only one waiting for them. Isabela was too.

In fact, they seemed to have been arguing for a while.

“This is important,” Aveline said to her, arms folded. “More important than whatever your selfish prattle is.”

“You know, it may come as a shock to you, but you’re not the only one with problems,” said Isabela.

“Problems such as… what? What drink shall I order next?”

Isabela glared at her but before she could do anything further, Hawke stepped between them. “Whoa. Whoa. Alright. What the fuck is going on?”

Aveline turned to her immediately. “Hawke. I learned something when I went to get the Viscount. The Arishok is sheltering two fugitives who say they have converted to the Qun. He must be convinced to release them.”

“Why?”

“Because after what’s happened with Petrice, people could start to think he can ignore the law. We cannot let this get out of hand."

“I’m going to die.” Isabela piped up suddenly.

Hawke looked over at her. “What?”

“See.” Isabela shot a glare at Aveline. “I’ve got the real problem here.”

Aveline was bristling. “You wouldn’t know a real problem if it—”

“Okay, okay,” Hawke held up a hand. “Just… kindly start at the beginning? Isabela, what’s wrong?”

“You know I’m here because of a relic, right? Well, I know who has it. And if I don’t get it back, then the guy I used to work for is going to kill me.”

“And what makes that more important than trying to keep the entire city from rioting?” Aveline snapped at her.

“Well…” Isabela turned and looked the other way nonchalantly. “They… might be related.”

Aveline gaped. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh, Maker’s fucking…” Hawke put a hand up to her temple. “Are you serious?”

“Look. There’s… a lot I haven’t told you. And I should have, and I’m sorry. But, please. I’m asking you as a friend.” Isabela looked over at Hawke and she realized she didn’t think she’d ever seen her so scared before. “…maybe even my best friend,” Isabela continued, and she was being genuine.

Hawke sighed. “Aveline, are you truly expecting trouble?”

“After what happened to the Viscount’s son? Yes. I’m trying to hold out hope that they aren’t looking for a fight, but… we’ll see.”

“Alright.” She glanced over at Anders, who looked rather baffled by everything that was going on, and then she looked back at Isabela. “I’ll help you get your relic.”

“You trust her this much?” Aveline asked.

“It’s called having a friend,” said Isabela. “You should try it sometime.”

“Hawke,” said Aveline. “The Qunari aren’t going to wait around forever. Be careful, and be quick.”

So Hawke was going to be surrounded by more death. Great. At least this time she would be killing people who deserved it. She looked at Isabela. “Do you have a plan?”

“Yes,” Isabela replied. “Come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end of Act Two now! Thank you for reading!


	28. (This Is Me Speaking Up)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke meets two very important figures and then fights the Arishok as we close out Act Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** The Arishok fight (at the end of the chapter) is _very_ gruesome and graphic, moreso than anything I've written in this fic so far.

Reclaiming Isabela’s relic happened like this:

Isabela led them out to a remote alleyway in Lowtown, where they were ambushed by a group of Qunari. Which _really_ didn’t surprise Hawke at all, because _wasn’t_ her life just getting increasingly absurd?

The Qunari demanded that Isabela hand over a relic. Isabela declined to do so, and the result was a fight that Hawke was prepared for because, well… she’d been expecting it.

Afterward, though, Hawke wanted an explanation. Isabela was a good friend and she’d help her, of course, but if this was going to get messy— which it looked like it was— she needed details. “So,” she said, jamming her staff into the ground as the last remaining Qunari in the group fell. “Should we just tell the Arishok that killing his men was all a slight misunderstanding?”

“Er… yes, about that.” Isabela looked over at Hawke. “The relic belongs to the Qunari, and there’s a small chance they want it back.”

Hawke had already suspected as much. “Well. That explains a lot.”

“Look,” said Isabela. “I just didn’t want to, I don’t know. Worry you, I guess?”

“Sweet of you,” Hawke deadpanned. “So… what is this thing, exactly? Why do they want it so badly?”

“It’s a Qunari text,” said Isabela, “Handwritten by that philosopher they’ve got. I can’t remember his name. Keslan? Cousland? Whatever. I’ve got it, so they followed me here.”

“Here? To Kirkwall, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“And _that’s_ why they won’t leave?” Anders asked. “Because of you?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds so bad, doesn’t it?” said Isabela.

“Maker’s breath,” Aveline sighed. “This whole mess could have been avoided.”

“And… why can’t you give it back, exactly?” Hawke asked. “It would kind of solve a whole _lot_ of problems.”

“Um. Because I’m going to die? We’ve been over this, haven’t we? Shit.” Isabela looked down at the Qunari corpses and then looked back. “Look. The book’s in that building and I’m not letting it slip away again.”

“Hawke,” said Aveline. “We might still be able to resolve this peacefully by giving this book to the Arishok. Then he can, I don’t know. Take his men and leave. It could potentially prevent a lot of bloodshed.”

“You could do that, or you could help keep your best friend in the world from dying,” said Isabela. “Please? I mean, I’m sure you hate me by this point, but… it would really mean a lot to me.”

Hawke could have laughed over it all. More absurdity. But no, Isabela was right: she was her friend. And ultimately, Hawke was more scared of failing another person she liked than having to deal with a lot of Qunari who she didn’t actually care about. “It’s yours,” she said.

“Wait. What? Really?” Isabela was floored. “I… I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting that. But… thank you.”

“Don’t make us regret it,” Aveline mumbled.

A loud crash rang from the building nearby, followed by a yell. “Shit,” Isabela hissed, and she kicked down the door and leaped inside— Hawke and the others right behind her. They burst into the middle of a fight between Tevinter magisters and Qunari, and Hawke nearly bowled over a man running past her. He was holding something. Isabela yelled out and dashed after him, and Hawke didn’t have time to respond because the Qunari and magisters both turned on her and she instinctively cleared her mind for casting.

With Isabela gone the fight was three against everyone else, but the scene was pure chaos and that lent itself in Hawke’s favor. Qunari were fighting Tevinters, and Tevinters were fighting Qunari, and both of them were sort of fighting Hawke and the others but mostly they were avoiding them because Anders was pulsing an electric blue and no one wanted to get close to the human lightning storm. One by one the others fell until none of them were left, and then Hawke leaned over, her hands on her knees, to try to recuperate. Fighting Qunari always took a lot out of her physically, and fighting mages always took a lot out of her both mentally and emotionally, and she was shaken by the thought that she probably only won this fight because her two enemies had been preoccupied with each other.

Well, she was shook by the thought until she shoved it from her mind, at least. She didn’t have time to show emotion. She never did.

Something else came to her then. “Isabela?” She looked up.

Isabela was gone.

Hawke stumbled to the building’s exit and out the open door. There, dead on the ground, was the man Isabela had been chasing, and hastily fastened to his shirt was a scrap of paper. Hawke reached down, snatched the paper and read it. Scribbled on it were the words “Hawke. I’ve got the relic. Had to go. Didn’t want you involved. Thank you for everything. -Isabela”

Aveline threw her hands up in the air. “So she took it and left. Of course she did. Maker’s breath. Now we have to deal with the Arishok ourselves. That’s just… wonderful. That’s just wonderful.”

Hawke pocketed the letter. She wasn’t upset. Not really. She didn’t even feel particularly disappointed. In fact, she really didn’t know how she was feeling. Blank, if anything.

Anders appeared next to her; he had been a few steps behind. “Isabela’s gone, then?”

“Looks like.” Hawke rubbed her forehead with the back of a hand.

“I… don’t like the idea of things coming to a head with the Arishok,” Anders admitted. “Especially with you involved. But I suppose… there are really no other options, are there?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Hawke, and she slung her staff over her shoulder and began the walk to the docks.

  


The Qunari attack began like this:

Aveline rounded up some of her guards, and Hawke got Merrill and Fenris— she figured she’d need all the help she could get— and then they all met back up outside the Qunari compound. The Qunari standing watch at their gate, however, refused to let them all in together and insisted they talk to Hawke and Aveline alone. Aveline managed to negotiate a couple of her guards in, and so the deal was struck.

Anders was not happy about it. He took Hawke’s arm and pulled her close. “Marian. Don’t— don’t go somewhere I can’t follow.”

“Nothing will happen,” Hawke assured him. “I won’t let anything happen.”

But Anders’ brows were furrowed and his eyes were endless amber wells of anxiety. “I’ll be right out here waiting,” he said. “Please—”

“I know, love.” She kissed him. “I’ll be right back. Five minutes. If you hear anything, you get all blue and glowy and come smashing through that door, alright?”

Anders smiled faintly and pressed his forehead to hers. “You know I’ll actually do that, right?”

“I’m counting on it,” Hawke replied.

“Hawke,” said Aveline.

Hawke looked up; the Qunari were waiting for her expectantly. She pulled herself away from Anders, and he was reluctant to let her hand go, but he finally did after she gave it one final reassuring squeeze.

The Arishok was waiting and Aveline marched right up to him. She demanded to see the elves he was harboring, but he ignored her and instead looked down at Hawke. Hawke glared back at him. “Hawke,” he said. “Do you know the location of our relic?”

“Your relic could be anywhere,” Hawke said.

“A truth,” the Arishok admitted, “But you minimize your role.”

Aveline was impatient. “We’re not here about the relic. We’re here about those elves.”

“Are you?” Even though the Arishok’s voice was level, Hawke thought she could almost pick up a hint of amusement behind it. “They were failed by your government. The Qun will not fail them.”

“What… do you mean failed by the government?” Hawke looked over at Aveline.

“They broke the law,” Aveline replied. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Your elves can explain for themselves,” said the Arishok. He stood aside and two elves, dressed in Qunari clothing, stepped forward. Their eyes were angry, and Hawke didn’t really have to ask to know that they were justly so, as it was an anger that she was familiar with.

“A city guard forced himself on my sister,” one of the elves said. “We reported it— or at least, we tried to. But they did nothing about it, so we paid him a visit.”

“That doesn’t excuse murder,” said Aveline.

“Yes it does,” said Hawke, who had suddenly lost all interest in trying to bring the elves back.

“Hawke, you’re not helping,” Aveline snapped.

The Arishok cut in. “Their actions are merely symptoms. Your society is the disease. They have made their choice and the Qun will help them to find a path that your way has denied them.” He took a step forward and then another until he was towering over Aveline.

But Aveline stood her ground. “You can’t decide that,” she said.

He turned his great horned head, slowly, and looked over at Hawke. “And what would _you_ do in my place?”

“Honestly? I’d get the fuck out of Kirkwall.” It was the truth, although Hawke was increasingly feeling that any words she said now wouldn’t matter.

Her assumption was correct. The Arishok turned and walked away a few paces, as though in thought, and then turned back. “I am at am impasse, Hawke. I cannot leave without the relic. But nor can I stay and remain blind to this dysfunction. There is only one solution.”

The way he said it was final, and Hawke immediately reached for her staff. Beside her, Aveline started to speak, but the Arishok hissed something to his men, and then one of the guards fell, a spear between his ribs, and a Qunari was atop of Aveline as she frantically parried, and another was on Hawke but she saw him coming and stunned him with a burst of energy. Then she threw a hasty arcane barrier over herself and Aveline as the two of them backed away towards the door of the compound. The Arishok never took his eyes off her, and she glared at him, teeth gritted.

This wasn’t over.

They reached the exit right as it smashed into bits from the other side; Anders was alight with the fury of the Fade but then it all dissipated as she stumbled into his arms and he grabbed her. “Thank the Maker!” He was frantic. “I heard the noises— I was afraid they’d got you.”

“I’m here, love.” Hawke reached for his hand. “But we’ve got to go. Come on.”

  


Meeting Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard happened like this:

Hawke, Anders and the others rushed to the Keep to warn the Viscount and the city guard about the impending attack. She thought that they were fast, but apparently the Qunari were faster, and they ran into a group of them as they rounded a corner and the result was a frantic fight. A lantern was knocked over in the frenzy, at some point, setting several barrels ablaze, but all Hawke could do when they were in this much of a hurry was hope that it wouldn’t cause too much damage.

The Qunari down for the moment, they dashed around another corner, and Hawke ran directly into someone— someone wearing silverite armor with a griffon emblazoned on the front, someone with blue eyes and dark hair—

“Carver!” Hawke gasped the name in shock. It couldn’t be. He was gone. He was a Grey Warden…

…and so he was, here wearing their distinctive silver and blue uniform, and there were other Wardens around him.

“Well. Fancy meeting you here,” Carver smirked.

“Right?” Hawke riposted. “I mean, it’s not like I live here or anything. Oh, wait.”

“I’ll admit a… Qunari attack wasn’t exactly what I was expecting to run into,” Carver said.

“Yeah, um… long story,” said Hawke.

“Somehow, I knew you’d be involved,” Carver replied.

“Carver!” Stroud approached them now, turning briefly to nod at Hawke at the others. “Come on. We have to get going.”

“You’re not here to help?” Hawke asked.

Stroud looked at her again. “We were just passing through,” he said. “Warden business is our own.” He turned to yell at the others and they began to head off, and Carver turned to leave as well.

“Wait!” Hawke called after him. He turned and looked back, and Hawke took a breath. “I… I have to tell you about mother.”

“I heard what happened,” Carver said. “Through the letter from Uncle. I’m… I’m sure you did the best you could.”

And Hawke couldn’t _quite_ tell, but she thought his words might have been genuine.

“Take care of yourself, sister.” Carver looked over at Anders, briefly, and then back at Hawke, and then he turned and headed away.

And they all might have been in the middle of the fiercest crisis to hit Kirkwall in years, and yet all Hawke could think was that, once again, she was the only one of her family left. It made her feel terribly alone, and she stood there sort of numbly until Anders gently took her hand and she thought no, no she wasn’t the last Hawke; she wasn’t the last Hawke because Anders had a red ribbon in his hair and an Amell signet ring on his finger and so long as that was the case then no, she wasn’t alone. Not yet.

They took off again, scrambling down one of the serpentine alleys of Lowtown, and were promptly set upon by even more Qunari. How, Hawke thought briefly, were there so many of them? She didn’t recall ever seeing this many in their compound at the Docks— but apparently that was an illusion, no doubt orchestrated by them on purpose. Because here was yet another dozen of them, including a mage, bound and chained like other mages of his kind, and yet so convinced of his belief was he that he was fighting for the very people who had him enslaved. Hawke felt a pang of sympathy for him and decided the best she could do was make his death as quick as possible. It wasn’t his fault he had been born into a world that hated him. It wasn’t his fault that he believed what the world wanted him to believe.

The Qunari mage, though, rejected Hawke’s empathy. They parried each other with counterspells for just a few moments before he sent her flying with one sudden blast of energy, and Hawke looked up to see his hands radiating energy as he readied his next spell, and then… a sword sprouted suddenly from the center of his chest. Blood spurted out of his mouth and he fell to his knees. Standing there behind him was a tall, blonde woman with steel eyes and the armor of a Knight-Commander, and she beheaded the Qunari in one swift swing of her sword. Then she sheathed it and looked over at Hawke, who had quickly stood. “I am Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard,” she said. Then she paused, her eyes narrowed, and she added, “I know you.”

Hawke’s first inclination was to kill her. This was _her_ , this was the Knight-Commander of the Gallows, this was who was responsible for every awful thing the templars did here.

But she hesitated, because she didn’t know if she _could_ kill her. Rank and file templars and new recruits were one thing. But seasoned, trained templars like Ser Varnell had been a frightening challenge, and she didn’t want to think about what sort of awful tricks a Knight-Commander would have up her sleeve.

Because Hawke was just one mage, and this woman had, no doubt, subdued and killed many, _many_ mages in the past.

And if she failed, what then? Anders would be next.

There was a demon clawing at the back of her mind, seemingly scratching at the base of her neck. _I can make you as powerful as you want to be_ , it whispered to her. _And we can kill her, and then we can kill all the templars, just like you want._

_I don’t need you to kill all the templars_ , Hawke’s thoughts hissed back to it. _I just need patience_.

And the demon, disappointed, retreated.

So Hawke’s eyes were defiant as she stared at Meredith. Anders approached from behind her, and Hawke could almost feel the raw hatred pulsating off of him. She hoped the Knight-Commander noticed the red ribbon in his hair. She hoped she knew that if she touched him there would be a price to pay.

If Meredith noticed the ice in the eyes of either of the two mages, she didn’t say anything. “The name Hawke has turned up in my reports many times. Too many.”

Hawke wondered if that was a threat. Was she keeping tabs on her? She didn’t like it.

She didn’t have a chance to say anything, though, because Aveline spoke up. “It’s good that we found you, Knight-Commander. The Qunari are—”

“It’s quite obvious what they’re doing, Guard-Captain,” said Meredith. She turned and looked toward the Keep. “They’re taking hostages to hold in the Keep. They may already be in control there. We need to deal with them. I’m sure you will agree.” She turned back to Hawke and looked at her pointedly.

Hawke could have laughed. The leader of the templars, asking her to help? It was too absurd. She wanted, very much, to tell her no, go fuck yourself.

…and yet, she was just doing what Hawke was on her way to do herself, was she not? To turn back and refuse to help innocent people now just because a templar was there would be petty and selfish.

Not that she wasn’t a petty and selfish person, mind.

So… “You can come along if you want, I guess.” Hawke shrugged.

Meredith tilted her head almost imperceptibly. “Good,” she said. “I’ll overlook your own use of magic. For the moment.”

_Charming_ , Hawke thought, as she pushed her way past her and headed toward the Keep.

  


Hawke met First Enchanter Orsino like this:

Meredith left to gather her own troops, and that made Hawke feel considerably better about things. She hadn’t been looking forward to the Knight-Commander breathing down her neck.

They were almost at the Keep when they ran into another band of Qunari. There were several more of them in this wave than any of the prior ones, the things would have easily gotten out of control except that they weren’t alone: there were mages there.

Circle mages, wearing their telltale standard issue robes and desperately fighting to protect a city that loathed them.

Anders lit up like a star at the sight, pulsating lightning and justice and truth, and the fight was brutal and bloody and Hawke had expended so much mana over the last hour or so that she was flagging. She downed a lyrium potion which sharpened her senses, everything around her coming into focus, and she cast a final spear of ice at a Qunari, freezing him solid as Aveline sliced through him.

There was a man on the ground. An elf, in robes that were far more exquisite than the ones worn by the other mages. He groaned and sat himself up as Hawke approached. “Many thanks, my friend,” he said as he got to his knees and then stood.

“Are you alright?” Hawke asked him.

“No worse for wear,” he said. “Are the others— oh. Oh, Andraste have mercy.” He looked around at the carnage that surrounded them; qunari and mages alike, bloodied and dead on the ground. 

The elf let out a cry of anguish as he realized that he was the only one left. “I… I told them to run.” He was resigned as he said it. “When I saw we were overwhelmed, I…”

Footsteps were upon them suddenly. Hawke turned; there was Meredith, and with her were several templars. Hawke gritted her teeth and she knew that Anders, behind her, was no doubt still pulsing with the Fade.

Meredith nodded curtly to Hawke, and then turned to the other man. “First Enchanter Orsino. I see you survive.”

“Your relief overwhelms me, Knight-Commander, Orsino replied. If he was afraid at all, he didn’t show it.

“There is no time to talk,” said Meredith. “Hostages are being held at the Keep. We must take it by force.”

“And who will lead us into this battle?” Orsino spat. “You?”

“I fight to defend this city,” said Meredith icily. “As I have always done.”

“To control it, you mean?” Orsino shot back. “I won’t have any more of my mages’ lives tossed to the flames at your whims.”

Hawke was fairly certain that Orsino had the right of things in whatever ongoing argument this was, but she didn’t have time to find out. “I’ll lead the way,” she said. “I can’t make things worse than they already are, anyhow,” she added under her breath.

Meredith raised an eyebrow at her statement, but ultimately didn’t object. “Very well. What is your plan?”

“We need to get inside the Keep,” said Hawke. “Now.”

Meredith nodded. “An excellent choice. Let’s move quickly.”

The Keep was not far from where they were and they were there shortly. Orsino went ahead to scout, and returned with the unfortunate news that the entrance was being guarded by at least a dozen Qunari.

“Is this the only way in?” Hawke asked.

“Yes,” said Meredith. “We’ll have to assault it directly.”

“Are you mad?” Orsino said. “They have hostages! We need a distraction.” He looked over at Hawke.

She didn’t want any more death on her hands than she already had, and she nodded. “Do you have something planned?”

“We need to get you around the guards and inside the Keep undetected,” said Orsino.

“And how do you plan on doing this?” Meredith asked him.

Orsino, in response, took his staff and made for the Qunari alone. “Have confidence, Knight-Commander. Have confidence.”

  


Marian Hawke became the Champion of Kirkwall like this:

Orsino sent a wave of fire at the Qunari guarding the Keep, enraging them and instigating a fight, which let Hawke and the others sneak around and inside. There were a few Qunari wandering about just inside the Keep, but they were easily dispatched.

Then she saw the Arishok, and then she saw Viscount Dumar.

Or, rather, she saw Viscount Dumar’s head.

“Here,” she heard the Arishok roar, “Is your Viscount,” and then he tossed the head to the ground in front of all the gathered nobles. They gasped as the head hit the ground with a thump and rolled to a bloody stop in front of them.

“Like fat dothrasi you feed and feed,” the Arishok told them, “And complain only when your meal is interrupted. I will change things. I will make you see.”

Hawke wasn’t listening to him because she was staring blankly at Dumar’s head, but then she forced herself not to think about it. Oh, to be sure, a sick mixture of nausea and rage and disgust and guilt was bubbling up in her stomach, but she shoved it back down, because she had to. She looked up and trained her eyes on the Arishok. “It’s me you want, is it not? Seeing as I’m the one who let your precious relic get away?”

“Shanedan, Hawke.” The Arishok took a few steps closer to her. “I expected you. But for all your might, you are no different from these bas. You do not see.”

Hawke didn’t have the patience to verbally spar with him. “Yes, yes, I know. Qun this, purpose that. Are you going to leave, or am I going to have to force you to leave?”

The Arishok lifted his head. “You jest, but there is truth in your boasting. You cannot have made it this far without killing many of my men. That makes you basalit-an, and few in this city command such respect. So tell me, Hawke. You know I cannot return to Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How would you see this conflict resolved without it?”

Realistically, Hawke didn’t see it getting resolved peacefully at all. The Arishok’s mind had already been made up. The only way she saw out of this was killing him.

And that would be a very, _very_ difficult fight. Even with the help of her friends.

The Arishok, too, seemed to have come to the same conclusion, and he was about to open his mouth to speak—

—when the door opened behind them.

Hawke turned; Isabela strode in and in her arms was the Tome of Koslun. “I believe I can answer that,” she said, and she walked up to the Arishok and handed him the great book. “You’ll find it’s undamaged,” she said. “Mostly.” Then she took a step back and winked at Hawke. “Sorry it took me so long to get back. So much fighting everywhere. You know how it is.”

“Heroic acts of sacrifice?” Hawke smirked. “What will people say?”

“This is your damned influence, Hawke, that’s what it is,” said Isabela. “I was halfway to Ostwick when I turned around. It’s pathetic.”

The Arishok, meanwhile, checked over the book with much reverence and then turned and handed it to a second in command, who took it carefully. He turned to face Hawke again. “The relic is reclaimed. I am now free to return to Par Vollen— with the thief.”

“Wait,” said Isabela. “What?”

Hawke was just as stunned. “You have your damn relic. Just go home already.”

The Arishok was insistent. “She stole the Tome of Koslun. She must return with us.”

“Well, you can’t have her,” said Hawke. “And you know what? You can’t have the rest of this shithole city either. It’s mine.”

“Hawke…” Anders, beside her, was visibly concerned.

The Arishok ignored him and took a step towards Hawke. “Then you know as well as I what must be done. I challenge you, Hawke. You and I will battle to the death. With her—” he nodded towards Isabela— “as the prize.”

“What? No!” Isabela broke in. “If you’re going to duel anyone, duel me! I’m the one who stole your damn book.”

“You are not basalit-an,” said the Arishok. “You are unworthy.”

All the rage and bile that Hawke had been choking down came up her throat, now, like a rejected meal. She was tired. She was _fucking tired_ of playing games with the Arishok. She thought of Seamus and she was tired. She thought of Viscount Dumar and she was tired. She thought of Ketojan, a mage, brainwashed into believing that he was evil, choosing to commit suicide rather than live as he was, and she was _tired_.

“Whoa now,” said Varric softly, breaking into her thoughts, “I don’t think anyone’s fighting anyone.” He looked over at Hawke. “Right?”

“No,” said Anders firmly. “She’s not.”

“It might be our best option,” Fenris spoke up. “The Qunari consider duels like this to be binding. If she can defeat the Arishok in single combat, the others will leave peacefully.”

“But. He is rather _big_ , isn’t he?” Merrill chirped.

Hawke wasn’t listening to them. All she was listening to was blood beating through her veins near her ears. Hawke was an eagle. Hawke was a storm. “Alright,” she told the Arishok. “If you want to do this? Let’s dance.”

“Hawke!” Anders exclaimed.

“Uhh, Hawke?” Varric spoke up. “I think it might be a good idea to talk about this first.”

“Yes,” said Anders. “Yes, we’re going to talk about this. In private.”

“Very well,” said the Arishok. “I will allow you to make preparations.”

Anders grabbed Hawke’s wrist, tightly, desperately, and pulled her aside so they were out of earshot of the others. “Marian. What do you think you’re doing?”

“What I have to do,” Hawke replied.

Anders’ eyes were wide with distress. “You can’t… this is…” He shook his head frantically. “There has got to be another way.”

“Even if there is, I don’t think we have any time to think about it,” Hawke replied. “Look. This might be the only way to get him to leave, and the only way to save this city. And most of this city doesn’t deserve to be saved, that’s true. But there are children, and refugees. And mages, mages who want to see freedom someday.” Hawke looked up at her dear, beautiful healer, his golden eyes filled with worry, and she put a hand up on his cheek. “And I’ve got to fight for Isabela’s honor. It’s the just thing to do,” she said.

“Marian…” he turned and kissed her palm and put a hand on hers. “If I lose you…”

“Death will not keep me from you. Nothing will. I’d tear the damn Veil down to find you again.” She pulled him close and they kissed fiercely, as if it was the first and the last time all together.

“Promise me you’ll come back to me,” Anders murmured, pulling away and pressing his lips to her forehead.

“I will always return to you,” said Hawke.

“Hawke.” Aveline interrupted them. “Are you sure you want to do this? This… this isn’t exactly normal.”

“ _I’m_ not exactly normal,” Hawke replied, and she gave Anders one last, reassuring kiss before turning to face the Arishok. Everyone around them backed away, giving them space, and Hawke reached into the Fade and she felt spirits and demons creeping all around. Watching, waiting.

Sometimes, she thought…

Sometimes it took someone who wasn’t normal to do what normal people could never do.

“I salute you, Hawke,” the Arishok rumbled as he lifted his head and stared down at her, holding his weapons out as he did so. “Most sarebaas are unable to keep themselves under such control.”

“Most sarebaas are not given the chance,” Hawke shot back. The two of them began to circle each other, and Hawke spoke up again. “What are you so afraid of? Demons? Demons have whispered to me every day of my life since I was seven years old. Are you saying you can’t handle what a child can?” Her voice was low and so was her stance, and the end of her father’s staff was quivering as she held it. “I am stronger than you,” she said. “And I always have been.”

The Arishok lunged at her and Hawke was ready, blasting him with a torrent of frost and ice from her staff and fingers, slowing and confusing him as she dashed aside. He brushed off the assault quicker than she expected him to, however, and he whirled around and made for her again and it was all Hawke could do to parry his sword with her staff. She dipped her head low just enough to stun him with a blast of telekinetic energy and then jumped away. But that maneuver usually bought her about four or five seconds and this time it only bought her one, and that’s when Hawke knew that this was going to be a very long and very brutal fight.

Hawke gripped her staff tightly; she felt tiny sparks of lightning flashing up and down it and that brought her a sort of electric comfort. In one fluid maneuver she swung around and pointed the staff at the Arishok and willed the sparks into action. They jumped from the staff and shot through the Arishok in a flash of light. This slowed him down for but half a second as he leaped into the air and crashed down hard right where Hawke had been standing just a moment before. His bulk and his twin weapons hit the ground with such ferocity that the resulting vibrations nearly knocked Hawke to the ground. But she refused to yield, and she turned on him and held out a hand, shaping the very forces of gravity above his body to keep him weighed down for just a moment—

—and then he was up again and he lunged for her, and Hawke hardly had time to react, quickly freezing the moisture in the air above them and sending it down at his head as sleet.

None of it seemed to be having a lasting effect on him. He lunged at her relentlessly, over and over, making sweeping arcs with his cleaver and his sword, and it was all Hawke could do to parry or leap out of the way.

She was growing breathless. She put a hand to her forehead and cast the telekinetic shock again, and then she managed to reach for her belt and grab a lyrium potion, which she drank so quickly that a good chunk of it missed her mouth entirely and splashed to her face or the floor. Then the Arishok was atop her, shoving her up against the wall, and the bottle flew from her grasp and crashed into a million pieces on the ground as Hawke held her staff against his sword. She saw the red in his eyes as the muscles in her arms strained and she grit her teeth, her feet sliding backwards just an inch, and the lyrium gave her the edge she needed to send a current of energy out from all sides of her staff and the Arishok fell backwards and Hawke tumbled to the ground before leaping up again.

But the Arishok was up again mere seconds later, and Hawke was at a loss. She didn’t know how to beat him. He was brushing all her spells aside as though she were nothing more than an annoying gnat. The only way to best him would be to do something completely unexpected.

And then she had it.

If she couldn’t beat him from the outside, she would beat him from the inside.

She held up a hand, murmured an incantation she had learned from her father. She had never actually used it before, because she’d had no need, so she didn’t even know if it would work. But she didn’t exactly have a choice. She’d have to try it and hope for the best. Now she just had to hold him off long enough for it to do the trick—

—The Arishok was on her again, and Hawke dodged again but it was close, too close, and she sent a fireball at his head and he grunted and gritted his teeth and shut his eyes against the searing pain, and in that moment Hawke dashed to the other end of the room. Distance, distance. She spun around, sent another bolt of ice at him, but sweat was in her eyes and her grip on the Fade was failing as she scraped the very edges of her willpower for the last mana she had available to her, and again he charged and this time she was just too slow to dodge and before she really knew what was happening she felt a punch to her gut and felt a searing, _blinding_ pain, and she looked down to see the Arishok’s sword embedded through her, just above her stomach.

Well. If that was how it was going to be, then all bets were off.

If she was going to die, she’d might as well take this bastard with her.

The Arishok lifted his other arm and weapon high; he was going to finish her off right there.

—or, he would have, if Hawke hadn’t used her sheer force of will to channel energy through her own blood and send him flying back with the force of a gale storm, ripping his sword out of her as he fell onto his back on the other end of the room.

Hawke could feel every bit of the sword as it slid out of her insides and flesh, and she doubled over clutching uselessly at her middle. Blood was everywhere; her vision was tunneling and all she could see were shades of gray and all she could feel was the ground beneath her feet and the bits of Fade that still danced on her staff. She used those things as a focus, because this was all real and physical and would remain so until she’d killed him, and if her mental calculations were correct that would happen any moment now…

…the Arishok righted himself.

He was slow.

He was stumbling.

He was sick.

He cast about this way and that, confused, and then he began to itch at his flesh madly, clawing so hard after a moment that it looked as though he would rip himself apart with his claw-like nails, and then he howled in pain and stumbled to the ground and Hawke fell over too, but not before letting out one last desperate surge of energy in the Arishok’s direction. The purple-blue torrent of arcane power buffeted him as he screamed, his blood literally boiling from the inside, and now Hawke was on the ground crawling towards him like some sort of fatally wounded animal, one arm wrapped around her middle, blood soaking her hand and trailing behind her, and with the very last of her energy she pulled a knife from her belt, climbed atop the Arishok, and plunged it into his neck. Then he was twitching and gurgling, coughing up hot, steaming blood as it seeped from his eyes and ears, and Hawke had nothing left and she tumbled off him and landed on her back. She was staring up at the ceiling— maybe— she couldn’t tell, because everything was swimming and her vision was slowly fading away. But she thought she heard someone running over, and she thought she saw Anders…

Anders…

Anders…

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news everyone! I intend on taking a couple weeks' break and then coming back at this fic with a vengeance for NaNoWriMo. So expect things to be quiet for a little while followed by a LOT of rapid fire updates beginning next month. I'm hoping to have this finished by the end of the year and then, Maker willing, bring you all some sequels. But we'll see! Thanks for reading so far!


	29. It's Never Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the fight with the Arishok, Hawke heals (with Anders' help) and is appointed Champion of Kirkwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW warning for a teensy bit of smut about halfway through this chapter.

When Hawke came to her senses in the Fade, she decided that she was dead.

She had two primary reasons for coming to this conclusion. The first was that all she could remember was a battle, of some kind, and the resulting searing pain. She remembered… something… happening, something that resulted in a lot of blood and in her vision tunneling and everything going black.

And now she was in the Fade, which according to the Chantry is where people went when they died. So that made sense.

The second reason she decided she was dead is because she heard something, and she turned and saw a table a little ways off, and sitting at it were her father and her mother and Bethany, and they were waving her over, smiling and healthy with a feast before them, and fuck it, all Hawke cared about right then was joining them.

So she headed off toward them, a sort of stumbling half-run, but no matter how much she ran, her family never seemed to get any closer. They kept smiling and waving her forward, acting as though everything was normal, but eventually Hawke stopped to catch her breath and think.

According to the Chantry, if you were good— whatever that meant— when you died, you went to the Maker’s side.

And if you _weren’t_ good, then you were stuck like this in the Fade forever.

Fucking Chantry. Fucking Maker. If Hawke ever met him she was going to kill him just for being an ass.

She tried to remember more details about how she’d gotten here. If she could figure that part out, then maybe she could sort the rest out as well.

Who was she fighting in the battle? Multiple people, or just one? Her memory was so hazy, but she seemed to recall one particularly large enemy. She wondered why she’d been fighting in the first place. Hopefully it was to protect Anders—

_Anders._

Hawke felt electric sparks of magic climb up her spine and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. No. No, she couldn’t be dead. Not if Anders had been left behind. She had promised that she would never leave him. She had _promised_ , and she would keep that promise.

The idyllic family dinner setting faded away, and there in its place was a vision of Anders, kneeling low over Hawke’s own broken body, and just _seeing_ that made her angry. No. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dead because she _refused_ to be dead.

A spirit drifted nearby, a near formless, wispy thing, but it moved with a purpose that hinted at an intelligence beneath its cloudlike shape. Hawke turned to it. “Am I dead?” she demanded.

“No,” said the spirit calmly.

Hawke was already forming her next question in her mind when the spirit replied, and its response actually stunned her because she hadn’t been expecting it. She wasn’t dead? She turned to face the vision of Anders curled up over her lifeless body. “Explain that, then,” she spat.

“You would have died, had he not saved you,” the spirit said.

“Anders?” She already knew the answer— of course Anders had saved her— and yet she wanted to say his name anyway, because it was grounding.

“Anders. Justice. The Cause of Mages.” The spirit seemed to give off an impression of nodding, even if it had no head. “He saved you.”

Hawke thought on this as the vision of the two of them shimmered away. “Then why am I here?”

“Have you never dreamed before?” the spirit was curious. “Have you not visited the Fade before, in dreams?”

Well, that was an obvious answer. It just seemed odd to be dreaming so soon after a vicious battle, memories of which were coming back to her now, piece by piece. She remembered a sword being shoved into her stomach, and she flinched. She was whole, here in the Fade, but she knew that was just an illusion. She suddenly wanted, very much, to see how bad the damage was. “How do I wake up?” she asked the spirit.

“Waking up would be unwise,” said the spirit.

“Oh?” Hawke was unconvinced.

“Justice— Anders— said you must rest. He said it is important for you to heal.”

“You talked to him?”

“Yes. He is here in the Fade. Sleeping, as you are. I told him of your arrival.”

“He’s here?” Hawke needed to see him, suddenly. “Can you take me to him?”

“I can, but I will not,” said the spirit. “It would be taxing on you. He said you must rest, and rest you shall.” The spirit drifted around her, as though it was a blanket and was wrapping itself very close around her, and Hawke felt warm and comforted and her dreams drifted into normal ones, then, about her days on the farm and waking up too late to feed the chickens and panicking (strange how years and years later she never seemed to stop having that dream), which melded into some sort of bizarre adventure where she and Shadow— who was the size of a lapdog for some reason that she didn’t question— were traveling across Thedas but somehow kept winding up back in Ferelden. She dreamed for a very long time, it seemed, and it was all very normal and very comforting, and sometimes the dreams shifted into nothingness before shifting back into something mundane, but eventually the dreams all drifted away and Hawke was in a dark room, and she felt very weak, as though someone had sapped her of all her energy.

She wasn’t quite sure if she was still dreaming or not, at first. Things were hazy and she felt groggy, as though her mind was being weighted down by some great ball of fuzz. She tried unsuccessfully to mumble something, but she hardly got anything out.

Then her vision slowly, achingly came into focus, and she saw that she was in her room, and there, on the bed, very close to her, Anders was resting his head. He was asleep, and he looked even more vulnerable than he usually did when he slept— his golden hair was all askew and he somehow looked very small.

Oh, how she loved him.

Hawke reached out to him with a hand, and that felt like it took all the effort in the world, but all the effort in the world was worth it just to touch him and thread his hair through her fingers. His hair was soft— always so soft, just like he was, and she stroked his head gently, for he was the greatest treasure she had, as priceless as the gold that his hair and eyes and heart took after.

He stirred, after a few moments, and opened his eyes groggily, and Hawke smiled at him. “Hey love,” she whispered.

Anders smiled back at her. “Marian,” he said. “You’re alive.”

“I told you I would always come back to you.” Hawke was still smiling. It hurt to talk and to move, but not talking to him and not touching him would hurt even more still.

Anders lifted his head, then, and took her hand and kissed it tenderly. “So you did,” he said, and he chuckled and kissed her hand again. “Do you remember much, love? About what happened?”

Now that she was waking up, it was coming back to her. The Arishok had challenged her to a duel and she’d accepted. Had she really? It seemed absurd to think back on it now. And then he’d ran a sword through her and—

Right. That had happened. And now that she remembered it, she could feel the tenderness in her stomach. She looked down, despite herself, although she was covered with a sheet and couldn’t see anything. “So… how… bad is it?” she asked.

“Not as bad as it could have been, really,” Anders replied. He was sitting up in the chair, his shirt wrinkled and his hair standing every which way. “Your intestines took a bit of a beating, but none of your other major organs were badly hit. You were very lucky. You did lose a lot of blood, though. You need plenty of rest while you recover from that.”

“And you healed me?” Hawke asked.

Anders smiled. “I did the best I could. Most of you should be pieced back together, but your body has a lot of its own work to do as well. I just did the grunt work. The rest is up to you.”

“’Grunt work’, Hawke snorted a bit as she repeated him. “You saved my life.”

“Well. I might have done that.” Anders was still smiling, and he stood up and leaned forward and kissed Hawke gently, and it was welcome, so welcome, and she didn’t know if she’d ever loved him more. She wanted to reach out and grab him and pull him closer, but she was still too weak to do so, and that was just as well, because there was a knock at the door and Varric let himself in.

“Hawke,” he grinned. “I thought I heard your voice. You doing okay?”

“Never been better,” Hawke snarked.

Varric approached the bed and looked over at Anders as he did so. “What are you standing around for, Blondie? Your patient has been out cold all day. I’m sure she could use some water.”

“Right.” Anders stood up straight. “You’re right. Are you thirsty, love?”

“I’m a bit parched,” Hawke admitted.

“I’ll be right back,” said Anders, and he disappeared from the room.

Once he was gone, Varric took a few steps closer to the bed. “Maker’s breath. I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, you know what they say, Varric,” Hawke grinned weakly. “You can’t keep a good Hawke down.”

“Heh.” Varric looked over at the open door. “You know. Blondie there has hardly left the room since he brought you in. I think I made him use the outhouse a few times. I didn’t want you to wake up to a mess, after all.”

“How long have I been out?” Hawke asked.

“Since last night. So about a day.”

“What happened?” Hawke pressed. “I remember the Arishok stabbing me. And I think I killed him?”

“You did,” said Varric. “Anders got all blue and angry when you fell. We had to hold him back long enough for you to finish the duel— easier said than done, I might add. Maker’s ballsack. He broke through after the fight was over, though, and healed you up and bandaged you. Then he picked you up and carried you all the way here.”

“He… carried me here?” Hawke shouldn’t have been surprised, not really. Of course he would carry her all the way through Hightown. And yet something about it was still unexpected. She was used to being the one saving people, not the other way around.

“All the way. No one bothered him. I’d like to think it was because myself and the others were following to make sure, but I think it might have been that death glare he was wearing. Maker. I’ve never seen a man be so tender and so terrifying at the same time. Anyway. The point is, after he patched you up the first time he brought you here and then spent hours patching you up again, and he hasn’t left your side since.”

“And the Qunari all left?”

“Oh yes. They all packed up and headed out immediately. They’re gone.”

Anders walked back in, then, holding a glass of water. Varric backed away, giving him room to approach, and Anders sat the glass down on the desk and then went right to Hawke’s side. “I’m going to help you up,” he said. “Tell me if this hurts.” He reached forward and gently helped Hawke sit up, just a bit, so she was leaning back against the headboard. It was painful, and her middle was tender and sore, and she really wanted nothing more than to just slide back down and collapse into bed again, but her pride prevented her from saying anything so, wordlessly, she let Anders prop her up against the back of the bed. “Doing good?” he asked.

Hawke nodded.

Anders went and retrieved the glass, and then held it to Hawke’s lips and tilted it so she could drink. She did so gratefully, because her throat was sore and dry, and afterward talking came easier. “Thank you,” she said.

“Are you hungry at all?” Anders asked.

“Seeing as the Arishok ran a sword through my stomach, am I even capable of eating?” Hawke smiled thinly.

Anders smiled back. “Well. You probably shouldn’t eat anything but broth or soup for a few days. But that’s easy enough to arrange.”

“I think I’m okay for now,” Hawke said. The water had been helpful, but she didn’t have much of an appetite. All she really wanted now was to fall back into bed and go back to sleep. “I think I’m just… going to rest more,” she murmured, and Anders helped her slide back down under the sheet and she was asleep again after a minute.

  


For the next couple of days, recovery was slow going. She mostly slept, which was slightly annoying because a part of her wanted to be out and about again, but she could never feel irritated for long because she would always end up feeling exhausted again and fall back asleep. She did regain her appetite, sort of, and she let Anders spoon broth and then soup into her mouth a few times a day. He rarely ever left the room, unless it was to fetch her something, and every night he slept in the chair at her bedside.

She started to feel better after a few days, and she was able to stay awake and sit up in bed for longer periods of time without tiring. Her friends came by to visit, and they were all very kind and she appreciated them, but what she really missed most of all was being able to touch and hold Anders, because as attentive as he was, he was refusing to be overly intimate with her while she healed.

Hawke couldn’t stand it, and late one night after he’d fed her and put the bowl aside, she reached out and grabbed his wrist with her hand. “Anders.”

Anders turned to face her, his soft eyes alight with attention. “What do you need?”

“You.” She pulled him close and they kissed, and Hawke was terribly hungry for him and nibbled on his lower lip, and Anders groaned but then he pulled away, _damn him_.

“Marian,” he said, and smiled gently. “I don’t want to stress you. You’re not ready for physical exertion yet.”

“I don’t care. I need you.” Hawke pulled him to her, again, and they kissed again, desperately, and Anders finally relented and settled himself at the foot of the bed and kissed and sucked on her between her thighs, gently at first but with more and more passion as Hawke moaned and encouraged him. She let out a scream, finally, as Anders ran his tongue against her soft spot again and again, and then he climbed atop her— carefully, so carefully— and he entered her and they made gentle love, one of Anders’ hands down below where Hawke was already so tender, the other hand on her face, in her hair, and moments later they cried out each other’s name into their ears and then Anders lowered his head, just a bit, to kiss and nibble on Hawke’s neck and she let him do that as much as he wanted, because she was his and he was hers.

“I love you,” he mumbled into her neck between bites.

Hawke held him with both arms; one of her hands was up on his head, her fingers thoroughly entangled with his flaxen hair. “I love you,” she breathed.

Anders was murmuring into her neck again. “When the Arishok hurt you the way he did— I thought he was going to kill you, but then I— I knew I wasn’t going to let him. I would go into the Fade to find you and bring you back to me.”

“I know,” said Hawke. “I know because that’s exactly how you healed me.”

“I suppose I did.” Anders smiled into her neck and kissed the spot he’d been sucking; he’d left a mark. But then he ran a healing hand across it and the mark disappeared, because Hawke knew the very best gift he could think of to give her was his magic, that secret thing that should not have to be secret, and Hawke loved that part of him most of all.

He snuggled into her and he was radiating warm healing energy the way he did, sometimes, and together they fell into a comfortable sleep.

  


A few days after that, Hawke decided to try leaving the bed, with Anders’ help.

She stood rather shakily, holding onto Anders’ arm, and managed to take a few experimental steps before she tired and had to take a break.

But she tried again a few hours later, and this time managed to leave the bedroom and reach the balcony, where she was greeted very enthusiastically by Shadow. The poor creature had been respectfully standing guard outside the bedroom ever since Anders had first hauled Hawke in about a week prior, and he was overjoyed to see his partner back on her feet. He wagged his stubby tail ecstatically, and Hawke leaned over— carefully, for her middle was still very sore— and gave him several pats and ear scritches.

She made more progress when she tried again the next day, making it all the way down the stairs, and it was here that Bodahn relayed a message to them: namely, Knight-Commander Meredith, who had claimed regency of the city after the Viscount’s death, wanted to see her.

Anders, who was holding Hawke’s arm, stiffened. “Why does _she_ want to see her? Does she want to arrest her? After saving the entire damn city?”

“Probably,” Hawke quipped beside him. Ordinarily she would’ve probably dared Meredith to try something, but she actually had a fairly realistic idea of her current physical state. Meredith probably did, as well, and of course she would try to take advantage of that. “Tell her I’m not interested.”

“She says it’s a ceremony,” Bodahn said. “All the nobles will be there.”

That was odd, and Hawke stared. “A ceremony? What for?”

“For saving Kirkwall, messere,” Bodahn said. “She wanted you to notify her as soon as you feel well enough to leave the house.”

Hawke looked over at Anders. She was sort of thinking it was a trap, but on the other hand, that seemed unlikely if there were truly going to be nobles around. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I would be careful,” said Anders. “She knows full well that you’re a mage, and you can be damn certain that she knows who I am.”

Hawke nodded. She had been thinking similarly. “But if it’s genuine, I should probably go,” she said. “The more nobles we can get on our side, the better.”

“Mm,” Anders agreed. “True. I’ll talk to Varric about it and see what he’s heard. But how are you doing, my love? You’ve been standing for a while.”

Hawke leaned over and kissed him. “I’m feeling well enough to do that,” she said.

Anders laughed.

  


The ceremony took place about a week later. Hawke had made a great deal of progress since then, and with the help of several stiff bandages around her middle to help her stand tall, she could now walk unaided— although she knew she wouldn’t be doing any running or fighting anytime soon. Varric had spoken to several nobles and confirmed that the gathering was genuine, and Hawke and Anders then had a quick discussion about it and decided that attending the ceremony would be a good idea. Keeping the nobles on their side was a good plan both for their own safety and for ensuring sympathy for mages. So the day arrived and Hawke put on some armor— her father’s robe had been all but destroyed in the battle of the Arishok, so she wore something different— and took her staff, because _fuck you I’m a mage_ , and with Anders by her side they headed to the keep.

Several nobles were gathered when they arrived, as were all of Hawke’s friends. First Enchanter Orsino was present, and so was Knight-Commander Meredith with a retinue of templars; her right-hand man Knight-Captain Cullen, Ser Thrask behind him, and several others that Hawke didn’t know by name and didn’t care to. Meredith looked at her expressionlessly, and Hawke looked her right in the eyes and refused to flinch or stumble or otherwise show any of the extent of her injuries. She wanted Meredith to think she was invincible.

The ceremony started only a few minutes after Hawke and Anders arrived. Meredith stood forward and turned to address the gathered nobles. “Citizens of Kirkwall,” she said. “As I’m sure you all know, for many years our city has stood under uneasy siege by Qunari. It did, at least, until just a few weeks ago. This woman, Hawke, took it upon herself to take on the Qunari leader in combat, and it is because of her that our city is once again safe and welcoming for all.”

 _Except mages_ , Hawke thought. _And elves, and poor people_ , she added mentally, because she was feeling especially belligerent.

Meredith was still talking. “I am sure all of you are aware of the Marcher tradition to award the title of Champion to any who takes exemplary measures to protect one of our cities. A Champion is a hero and a guide, someone we can look to to lead us when all seems lost. Kirkwall, in her many illustrious years, has never had her own Champion. Until now. Today, it is my honor and duty to pronounce Messere Hawke the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Everyone cheered, then— the nobles cheered and Hawke’s own friends cheered loudest of all. Hawke was silent, and didn’t really feel much of anything. It was just a title. And it probably came with a lot of responsibility, which she was certain would be a pain in her ass. But then, it also probably bought safety and clout, both of which were things that she knew would be necessary in her future.

Anders, standing at her side, was also quiet, but he smiled and squeezed Hawke’s hand.

Meredith turned to face Hawke in specific. “In the past, becoming Champion has always cleared said person of any criminal past and allowed them to do what they must in defense of the city. As such, your frequent use of magic outside the confines of the Circle of Magi is hereby forgiven and you have official sanction to live outside the Gallows walls as a mage. Do note that the Chantry cannot guarantee our lenience outside of this city. You have a Circle, and it is all of Kirkwall.”

Of course it was. Of course sanctuary was still a cage. Hawke also noted that Meredith failed to guarantee the same safety of any of her friends. Anders and Merrill were still considered criminals, then.

Not that anyone would probably go after them. Merrill, from what she understood, was blending in well enough with the other elves and as for Anders, well. Hawke had made it _very_ clear that they were together and that he would not be touched.

Still, she didn’t like it.

But she nodded stiffly, a show for the gathered nobles, and then two dwarves approached, lugging a chest between them. They set the chest down in front of Hawke, who looked down at it.

“A token,” said Meredith, “Of our appreciation for your service.”

The dwarves opened the chest and proceeded to pull out a new set of armor, exquisitely designed and fashioned specifically for Hawke. There were, she noticed with some satisfaction, several hawk motifs present throughout the set. The right gauntlets came with talons, and there was a protruding chestguard with no real discernible purpose other than to bring to mind the sharp, curved beak of a bird of prey. The collar was lined with fur. Hawke’s father had once told her that magic was amplified by as much surface area as the mage had available on their person for the Fade to touch. This was why so many powerful mages opted to adorn themselves with fur or feathers. And that wasn’t all: the outfit was sparse down its left side, designed specifically to show the skin of the left arm and hand. Easy access to blood magic, if she ever had to resort to it. This armor was not made just for show, then, no, it was made to be terrifyingly and viciously functional. They weren’t just giving Hawke this armor as a gift. They were giving it to her as an investment. They were banking on her to protect the city from any impending threat of any kind.

“I… thank you,” she mumbled to the dwarves. The ceremony itself may have been absurd and excessive, but the armor was the very best of its kind.

The dwarves nodded their acknowledgment and backed away, and Meredith, too, turned to talk to her templars while the nobles began to mingle. The song-and-dance was over, then. Good. Although Hawke refused to show it, she was getting tired and sore.

They went home and Hawke took a nap, but then she remembered her new outfit when she woke up and she climbed out of bed to try it on. It fit perfectly, and something about it felt _right_ as Hawke admired herself in the mirror. She opened her mind to the Fade, inviting it in, and she could feel its electric power trickle along the fur in her collar and then travel down her shoulders and arms in sparks. Her right hand was a fist of taloned claws. Her bare left arm was a threat that she didn’t need lyrium to be deadly. Her silhouette was a hawk.

There was a knock at the door and Anders walked in. “Did you sleep well, love?” he asked.

Hawke turned and showed off her armor. “What do you think?” she said. “Have I got the dangerous apostate look down pat?”

“You do,” Anders chuckled, and he pulled her close and kissed her; she was all spikes and sharp points but he loved her all the same. “So, Champion of Kirkwall,” he said, looking at her with proud, glowing eyes. “How are you going to save the day next?”

“By freeing the mages, of course,” Hawke replied, and she kissed him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I'm Pike and this is jackass~~
> 
> I'm Pike and this is the first of many rapid fire NaNoWriMo updates. I hope you don't get too tired of me!
> 
> I have also written the beginning of this chapter (and bits of the end of the last one) from Anders' point of view as a sort of companion piece to this one. If you're interested, you can find [that fic right here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552356)
> 
> The bit about the reasoning for mage robes having fur or feathers is pure headcanon on my part, don't go looking for it on the wiki or anything, haha. But feel free to swipe it/modify it for yourself if you like it.


	30. The Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gets up to her old shenanigans again and runs into several familiar faces including Orsino, Elthina, Meredith, and Cullen, the latter of whom does NOT have a good day. To put it mildly.

Hawke was, for all intents and purposes, stuck at home for the next several months. And it bothered the shit out of her.

Oh, she could walk and eat on her own, now. But any type of physical exertion— running, fighting, even casting spells— took more out of her than it used to. She asked Anders, several times, if there was any way he could speed up the healing process. And he always told her gently that no, there really wasn’t, and she would just have to slowly build up her strength again.

Bugger it all.

She had a large scar across her upper abdomen. It didn’t bother her much. It was a trophy; a souvenir showing that she had single-handedly taken on the threat that had been menacing Kirkwall for years, and won. Besides, Anders liked to kiss that scar, the same way she liked to kiss his. She would kiss the many scars that lined his back every time they bathed together, and every time it reminded her of how cruel the templars had been to him—

_“Punishment for one of my escapes. They had templars watching me afterward. I wasn’t allowed to heal myself, or have anyone else heal me. They wanted the scars there, so every time I washed or scratched my back from then on, I would feel and remember.”_

_“That’s what they told you?”_

_“In those very words.”_

—and that would strengthen her resolve to kill every last person who had been involved and every last person who continued to be involved and make sure that no child ever had to suffer again under a society that told them that they were bad, a curse, a disease to be quarantined.

Her own scar, at least, had been earned. Not inflicted.

Spending time with Anders reminded Hawke how badly she wanted to help his cause. He wasn’t often at his clinic anymore. No, instead he was out agitating or running the Mage Underground or occasionally staying at home to work on his manifesto— which he had recently scrapped almost entirely to start again. Hawke didn’t want to slow him down by being too unfit to help, so she tried to speed along her own recuperation with strength and endurance training. She and Shadow would go out back and play tug-of-war, or she would take ingots of iron and flex with them, or she would practice with her staff in the bathroom for hours on end. It felt good, and slowly, day by day, she could feel her strength returning. Being largely bedbound for several weeks had taken its toll and she’d lost a great deal of muscle tone, but it was returning, now, and eventually she was back to being much like she was before— all lean sinew, built for combat and action, ready to call down the thunder so others could reap the whirlwind.

It came one day, finally, months and months later, when she worked through a routine of exercises and came out the other end having hardly broken a sweat, that she knew she was ready for action again. It was perfect timing, too: Varric had recently dropped by and asked her to visit the Hanged Man when she could, because he had something to show her.

So she put on her new outfit— the one that made her look like the bird of prey she truly was— and then she went to her closet and grabbed her father’s staff. The staff had come out of the Arishok battle in remarkably good condition. Hawke was happy about that, because she never wanted to use another one. All staves came with names, lovingly bestowed by either by the craftsmen or by their first owner. Anders had told her that his was called Freedom’s Call, and Hawke had recently found the old documents and receipts detailing Malcolm’s purchase of his staff, which the papers said was called Freedom’s Promise.

Hawke didn’t believe much in fate, but she couldn’t help but put extra meaning into that name anyway. Anders would be the call, and Hawke would be the response. He would be the falconer, and she would be his falcon. And together, they would bring freedom to all of Thedas. It was a tall order, but she wouldn’t settle for anything less.

So Hawke had her armor and her staff when Anders came home that day, and he smiled at her as he often did. “It looks like you’ve got plans,” he said.

“A few,” said Hawke. She approached Anders and they kissed, and she ran a few happy fingers up his chest. “Up for a date at the Hanged Man?”

“The Hanged Man?” Anders smiled his lopsided smile that Hawke loved so much. “Whatever did I do to deserve such a delicious delicacy as piss-flavored swill?”

Hawke kissed him again, because how could she not, when he was going to smile like that? “Oh, you know,” she said. “A bit of this, a bit of that. Shall we?”

  


“Hawke!” Varric held up a hand as she and Anders walked in. “And you’ve got your fancy new outfit too. Is that the one the Knight-Commander gave you?”

“Yep,” said Hawke.

“And on a scale of one to ten, how angry do you think it made her, having to give all those accolades to a mage?” Varric asked.

“Hopefully eleven,” said Hawke.

Varric laughed. “I love it. This is why you’re my favorite. Anyway. Care to follow me up to my office? I’ve got something I want to show you.”

They headed upstairs and they all sat down at Varric’s desk. There was a little box in front of him, although Varric ignored it as he began to talk. “So. Remember when we kicked our way into Bartrand’s place a while back?”

“How could I forget,” Hawke snorted.

“Well,” said Varric, and he leaned back in his chair, his fingers tented together. “Recently I went back there again. I took Fenris and Aveline with me, in fact. See, I’d lined up a potential buyer for the house, but we had a slight problem. Specifically, it turns out the house was haunted.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “And someone still wanted to buy it?”

“Hey. I’m good at talking things up. Anyway, we went in to try to see what was up, and we found a little something.” He leaned forward again and tapped the box. “Do you remember that weird idol that Bartrand found? And how he said he’d sold it to someone? There was still a shard of it loose in the place. That’s what was haunting the house.” He opened the box and Hawke and Anders both peered in. There, pulsing a dark red, was a shard of the strange, crimson-colored lyrium.

Just looking at it made Hawke uncomfortable, and she squinted a bit. “Wait. Varric. You’re saying this thing haunted a house and made your brother lose his mind so you… decided to keep it?”

“Listen.” Varric leaned back again. “I’m not my brother. I actually know how to handle myself. Bartrand went off the deep end because he was already a greedy bastard.”

“Varric.” Hawke was stern. “Listen to me. Get rid of it. I don’t know what it is, but it’s bad.”

“I’m inclined to agree with Hawke,” said Anders. “I’m not sure what it is either, but I do know that it’s corrupted. It corrupted your brother, and if you’re not careful—”

“Are you even listening to me?” Varric snapped at him. He looked back over at Hawke. “Let me have this,” he said. “I need it.”

Hawke stood. “No,” she said firmly. “Are you hearing yourself right now? Give it to me and I’ll figure out a way to get rid of it. This thing is already affecting you and I’m not going to let it.”

“Maker’s fucking— fine. Fine. Whatever. Have it.” Varric shoved the box across the table towards Hawke, and for a moment there was a flashing anger in his eyes, but then it faded. “Shit, Hawke. I’m sorry. That was… that was uncalled for. You’re right. You take it, do some magic to it or something. Make it self-destruct. I don’t want to see it anymore.”

“Thank you.” Hawke took the box and handed it to Anders, who put it into his pouch.

“But, if you’ll humor me for a minute,” Varric said then, “Can you maybe do some research into what it is? If it’s really as bad as it seems, then… well, shit, I don’t know who Bartrand sold it to but it would probably be a good idea to know. So we can either warn them or… avoid them. If you get what I’m saying.”

Hawke certainly did. She let out a heavy breath, blowing a few wisps of dark hair out of her face. “I think I know someone I could ask,” she said.

  


Anders was fidgety and on edge as they headed into the Gallows, and honestly Hawke didn’t think she could blame him. She hadn’t been to this side of Kirkwall in quite some time, and it seemed as though things had only worsened in her absence. There were many more Tranquil than there had been last time she’d been here. They wandered about aimlessly and discussed, in that monotone voice of theirs, how things would have been better if everyone had just been obedient. There were more templars around, as well, and they all looked at Hawke knowingly, because she was the one mage who had bested them, the one mage who they couldn’t touch.

There were precious few actual mages in the area. “I know why that is,” Anders said softly when Hawke mentioned it to him. “But I’d rather not talk about it here. I’ll tell you when we get home.” Hawke nodded to him.

But they rounded a corner to the merchant stalls, and Hawke’s old friend Solivitus was there, by his table of potions and unusual ingredients, and Hawke headed over.

He lit up at her approach. “Ah! Hawke! I heard the news and how you’re Champion of Kirkwall now. My very best congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you,” Hawke replied. She turned to Anders and he handed her the box he was carrying, and she looked around and then lowered her voice. “I was actually wondering if you’ve ever seen anything like… this.” She opened the box and showed its contents to him.

Solivitus widened his eyes. He, too, looked around surreptitiously, and lowered his voice as he stroked his chin. “Is that… lyrium?”

Hawke nodded. “I think so. But it’s not like any I’ve ever seen. Have you?”

Solivitus shook his head. “I’d love to study it, but frankly, in this environment, I wouldn’t be able to put the time and energy into it that I wanted to. I can tell you what I think you should do with it, though. If you can find a skilled Formari, I’m sure they turn it into a powerful enchantment. That’s the best I would suggest.”

“I think I know just the person for that,” said Anders.

“I think I do too,” said Hawke, and she shut the box back up and gave it back to Anders. “Thank you. Oh, one last thing. Say, hypothetically… that someone in Kirkwall was interested in acquiring this sort of thing. Who do you think that person might be?”

“So you’ve found more of it?” Solivitus quirked an eyebrow.

“And then promptly lost it,” Hawke said.

“Well,” said Solivitus. “Were this any other Circle, I might suggest that it ended up here. But as is, anything that goes into the Gallows gets vetted by the templars first, so it would’ve stopped there.”

“The templars might have gotten it?” Hawke asked.

“They might have. Or it might have wound up with an apostate. Or a common criminal, or fence. Something like that is going to catch a fine price. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep my ears open and let you know if I hear anything.”

Hawke nodded her thanks to him and then she and Anders turned to walk away.

They were just about out of the Gallows and back into Kirkwall proper when they saw First Enchanter Orsino.

He was standing partway up some stairs and was discussing something with a small audience. Curiously, the audience seemed to be made up of mostly nobles.

Hawke looked over at Anders and he looked over at her— neither knew what was going on. Hawke, though, was interested, so they decided to approach.

It didn’t take long to realizing that Orsino was railing against the Knight-Commander. “I know you fear us,” he told the little group. “But Knight-Commander Meredith is using that fear to take control of the city. She opposes every effort to replace Viscount Dumar, and you have seen the chaos of her reign! Will you continue to allow this?”

The nobles mumbled amongst themselves and a few of them nodded; clearly he had made a point. One of them, though, spoke up. “These are troubled times, First Enchanter,” he said. “Kirkwall needs stability. Until a new viscount can be found…”

“You and I both know that she would have the templars rule Kirkwall forever if she could,” said Orsino. “The Templar Order exists to guard the Chantry and Circle. Not Kirkwall. And especially not while the Knight-Commander sees evil in every corner. I think we are better than that. I suggest the nobility rule the city.”

There was more nodding and mumbling amongst the gathered nobles. Obviously, they liked that suggestion. Anders leaned his head in to Hawke. “A smart move,” he whispered. “The First Enchanter might be more help to us than I thought.”

Hawke felt a little electric tickle along the back of her neck knowing that she was well enough for Anders to start including her in his plans again. Finally. She wanted nothing more than to help him; nothing more than to watch every mage be freed while the Gallows burned down around them.

One of the nobles still wasn’t convinced. “Are you mad?” she asked Orsino. “Everyone fears her. She has templars on her side. She has the guard wrapped around her finger. Even if we wanted to take charge, we don’t have a hope in open rebellion. She must step down herself.”

“And you are absolutely right,” Orsino replied. “But we must all call on her to step down together.” He saw Hawke, suddenly, and he beckoned her over. “Hawke,” he said as she approached. “She made you Champion of Kirkwall. But she did so only to secure support for herself as she took over for Dumar. You know that she would lock you up if she could.”

“She would,” Hawke agreed. It was the truth.

Anders spoke up now. “This is not going to stop. Even if the Knight-Commander steps down as regent, she’s still a tyrant. Dozens of innocent mages are suffering because of her. This cannot end with anything less than a complete and total overhaul of the entire system.”

Orsino looked over at him sharply. “I appreciate your frankness,” he said, “But that is not what I was suggesting. The Circle needs an overhaul, it’s true. However, now is not the time for—”

“It is _past_ time,” Anders shot back.

Neither of them responded, because all the nobles suddenly quieted down and parted like a sea, and Grand Cleric Elthina walked up to Orsino. “My, my,” she said, and Hawke noticed for not the first time that the woman’s eyes were expressionless and unsettling. “Such a terrible commotion! You are so frustrated, Orsino. Do you think this is truly wise? To incite rebellion like this?”

“I— no, your grace,” said Orsino, and he stammered and looked away.

Anders looked at him, dumbfounded, and then looked back at Elthina. “How can you continue to do nothing?” he exclaimed, finally, and he sounded truly exasperated. “Are you a coward? Or is it sloth that guides your hand? Sloth, and this ridiculous belief that the Maker will solve all our problems if we just wait long enough when you and I both know that he left us to our own devices generations ago.”

Elthina looked at him calmly. “If you would have words with me, child, now is not the time or place. I would be happy to discuss this with you at the Chantry later.” She turned to face Orsino and was talking again before Anders could continue. “Thank you,” she said, “For your cooperation.” Then she looked over to a few templars who had been following her. “Young men, would you show the First Enchanter back inside? Gently, if you please.”

The templars nodded and grabbed Orsino— if that was what passed for “gently”, then Hawke didn’t want to know what “roughly” meant— and they headed off.

Anders was seething, but Elthina ignored him and addressed Hawke. “Champion. I am sorry that you had to witness that. We are fortunate that the Knight-Commander wasn’t here. Things could have gotten messy very quickly.”

“This isn’t going to improve if you keep ignoring it,” said Hawke. “Regardless of what you think about mages, it’s ridiculous that the templars have control of the city. Surely you understand that.”

“It’s a difficult question with a complicated answer,” Elthina replied.

“It’s… really not,” said Hawke.

Elthina had decided not to pay attention to her anymore, though, which seemed to be her modus operandi. She listened to who she wanted to listen to and then shut off her interest completely when she wanted to change the subject. She turned instead to face the gathered nobles. “Gentle people of Kirkwall, I implore you to return to your homes. This will not be resolved today.”

Without a word, the nobles dispersed.

Elthina turned to leave. “I must attend to the Gallows. As always, I thank you for your service, Champion.” She looked over at Anders, briefly, who had opened his mouth to speak again. “I am willing to talk to you in the Chantry. Not here.” Then she was gone.

Anders stared after her, a glare in his eyes. “She is doing nothing,” he said. “Mages are dying all around her and she’s doing nothing. She can’t continue to wave her hands around and pretend the problem is solved. She is as good as helping Meredith.”

“I know, love.” Hawke took his hand. She was annoyed. Why had the Grand Cleric refused to speak to her here? Was she afraid she would lose the debate and thus lose face in front of the nobles? Did she even have anything to say that wasn’t repeating nonsense about the Maker? Hawke also wanted to see and talk to Meredith, suddenly. Hawke hadn’t seen the Knight-Commander since that ceremony months before, and she’d heard rumors that over the past few months she had gotten increasingly erratic and paranoid. Hawke didn’t doubt it, but she also wanted to see and judge for herself, for— tactical reasons.

“Hawke.”

The unexpected voice behind her almost made her jump. But then she recognized the voice, and she gritted her teeth. “Knight-Captain Cullen,” she said with a grimace, and turned to face him.

“So. Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.” Cullen was always acting like they were buddy-buddy with each other and Hawke didn’t know _why_. The poor man did know that she hated Meredith and he happened to be Meredith’s second-in-command, yes? One didn’t become Knight-Captain by being a bad templar, and one didn’t become a good templar by being a good person. “It’s been a while,” he said.

 _Thankfully, it has, yes_ , Hawke thought to herself, but instead of saying it she just nodded to him.

“I overheard you talking to Orsino and the Grand Cleric just now,” said Cullen, speaking for all the world as though they were friends. “If you don’t mind me saying so… it seems you’ve become less a friend to the templars in the months since your ascent.”

That comment actually made Hawke laugh bitterly. “Was I really ever a friend to the templars?”

“Well, I figured…” Cullen stammered a bit. “I mean, you helped Ser Thrask, and Ser Emeric.”

“Ser Emeric had a worthwhile investigation going,” Hawke replied. _And Ser Thrask was an remnant of the Old Hawke_ , she thought to herself, although she didn’t say it.

“Well,” said Cullen. “The point remains that you are the only mage in Kirkwall who could approach the Knight-Commander directly if you wished. I’d say that puts you on some level of— maybe not friendship, but at least understanding.”

Hawke had no idea where he was getting this idea. He seemed to enjoy believing that there were imaginary positive connections between her and the templars. She decided to ignore it. “Speaking of the Knight-Commander, you cannot possibly still support her. Everyone says she’s gone mad.” Inwardly, she actually didn’t have any trouble whatsoever believing that he supported her, but she was looking for information.

“The people ask too much of her,” Cullen replied, and the look on his face was sympathetic. Towards her. “She needs a spine of iron to survive her position. You have to understand: I have seen madness before. I saw Uldred’s eyes when there was nothing human left in them.”

Anders rolled his eyes beside Hawke, and she knew exactly why: it was because Cullen was taking a question about _whether or not a templar might be mad_ and turning it into _no but hey, this mage sure was!_ Had this been years ago, Hawke might have let it slide off of her. It was a shit thing for him to say, yes, but Hawke was used to it. Oh, how terribly easy it was to become resigned to a popular opinion that you deemed out of your control. Oh, how terribly easy it was to choke down that message, again and again, forcefed to you by people who didn’t even know that they were doing it, that _you are not like everyone else and isn’t that just your luck, ha ha, you may as well just grin and bear it._ Hawke was used to being, at best, the butt of a joke, or at worst, evil. None of this was anything new.

But things had changed since then. _She_ had changed since then. She had decided that she no longer deserved to be treated like shit just for being different.

No one deserved that.

Cullen was still talking. “The Knight-Commander is not there yet. But I… will admit that I do not have to ask where these rumors come from.”

“The Knight-Commander’s second-in-command might actually be seeing some sense? Someone call the town criers!” Anders exclaimed. “That only took, what, five years? Six years? I suppose no one’s perfect.” 

Hawke spoke up again. “If it comes to open war between templars and mages, whose side with the Grand Cleric support?”

Cullen snorted a bit. “She is bound by faith and duty to support the templars. We have dominance over mages by divine right.”

 _Dominance. Divine right._ The words repulsed Hawke. How many mages had been hurt under that pretense? How many mages had held their tongue and done whatever the templars had asked because they felt that they had to? How many mages had had their rights violated because they believed it was the Maker’s will? She felt anger rising in her throat, a sick bile that she could taste with her tongue. Cullen was talking again— something about how sad it was that Elthina was leading the poor mages on with hopes and dreams of rebellion rather than nipping them right in the bud from the start— but Hawke couldn’t even focus on him, because all she was thinking about were the dozens of Tranquil in the Gallows courtyard, wishing more people had been more obedient. All she was thinking about was all the lives that had been ruined, for hundreds of years, because of words like these.

Anders broke into her thoughts. “Must we continue to listen to him?” He asked.

No, Hawke didn’t really want to. But she did have one more question. “Is the Knight-Commander around?” she asked Cullen.

“I believe she is in her usual post in the templar barracks, if you wished to talk to her,” Cullen replied.

Hawke turned to go, and that should have been the end of it, but somehow Cullen never seemed to know when to stop talking, so he was still going on as Hawke started to walk away. “I know you’ve always been an apostate, but the Circles protect mages from threats both inside and out. Your sister—”

Hawke paused.

Cullen kept talking. “I heard about your sister. If Uldred hadn’t done what he had, Kinloch Hold would have been the safest place in Thedas. There are no ogres in the Circle.”

And Hawke spun on him then, a thunderbolt, an eagle dropping from the sky. Her right fist— the one with sharp, metal talons— collided with his mouth, and it was _brutal_ , and Cullen, taken completely aback, stumbled backward and fell over, landing on the ground in a horrific clang of metal on metal. Hawke wasn’t done yet. She launched herself on top of him and grabbed his throat with her left hand and with her right she punched him, again, although this time he was expecting it and managed to deflect the worst of it with a quick spell that weakened her strength. Hawke was _livid_ when she realized that he’d thwarted her— and how the fucking templars, of all people, played with magic they weren’t even gifted with, while condemning it at the same time!— and she decided that if that was how it was going to be then she would gladly return the favor.

She had both hands around Cullen’s neck, talons raking across his neck, drawing little beads of blood, and she opened her mind to the Fade. Normally when she did so it was like taking a spark to kindling. She’d use the Fade to ignite her anger, and it would manifest as fire, or as ice, or as lightning.

But this time, this time, she was slow. And she was steady. And she was deliberate. And to anyone watching it would have been just a few seconds, but to Hawke it was minutes, hours, as her mind traveled along the Fade’s labyrinthine paths and picked up a bit of terror here and a bit of horror there. Hawke lifted her head, just barely, so she could look down at Cullen, the whites of his eyes shining, and bit by bit she took all that fear that she’d collected and transferred that to his mind.

 _It feels like hours, doesn’t it_ , Hawke thought as his pupils dilated and his veins constricted in sheer terror. _You thought some fucking demon in the tower knew what fear was. You haven’t fucking met me._ He tried to gasp for breath and Hawke tightened her claws around his neck like a constricting snake. _Mmm, what’s wrong? You’re only used to apprentices?_

He gurgled.

_Weaponless apprentices in the Harrowing chamber?_

She relaxed her grip then, but only just, and only because she didn’t want him dead quite yet. Hawke felt alive. Her senses were both heightened and focused only on her prey, and she could see every shade of crimson in the blood drops on his neck and hear every thrum of the deep war drum that was her own heart, as her mind casually continued to walk the Fade and pick up more and more horrors which she then shoved with increasing inelegance into Cullen’s thoughts. He squirmed beneath her grip, a mouse caught in a hawk’s talons, and his mind was resisting— he was a trained templar, on lyrium like they all were— but Hawke could feel his will breaking, could feel the fragile pieces as she scratched them away like so many bits of eggshell, and all she needed were a few more moments and—

—the flow of time returned to normal and everything was loud again and several templars were dragging Cullen away and several, _several_ more were dragging Hawke off of him. She fought, but was no match for all the templars there holding her arms down and completely suppressing her connection to the Fade. She did see, though, with some satisfaction, that Cullen’s lip was bloody and mangled where her initial punch had made contact. He stared at her, eyes wide and face bloodied, as though she was an otherworldly horror, a repulsive nightmare creature given human form.

“I hope that leaves a scar,” Hawke told him calmly as the templars dragged her off. “I hope every time you look in the mirror, you remember.”

  


Hawke was dragged into a small room and then shoved roughly onto a chair by four different templars, one of whom kept a heavy gloved hand on her right shoulder. The auras the templars emitted were oppressive, much like the very air of the place was. Hawke felt as though there was nothing but fog where the Fade normally was, which would have alarmed her except she felt feral and savage and if one of the templars tried something then she would show them what it meant to be a wild Fereldan dog, teeth bared.

So no, she wasn’t scared for herself— but she was scared for Anders, who was cornered by two other templars and who looked like a small, terrified child. His hands were up by his chest as he fidgeted nervously and rocked back and forth, shifting very quickly from one leg to the other, looking very much like he was about to start climbing the walls. And yet despite it all he appeared to be most concerned for Hawke’s safety, constantly stealing glances at her, his eyes wide with concern, and Hawke hated it and she hated herself and she wished she wasn’t such a monster because he deserved someone more compassionate. He deserved someone who wasn’t going to snap and send them both to the templar barracks the way she had.

She wondered what was going to happen. Would the templars threaten them with Tranquility? Hawke would rip out the still quivering throats of every last templar in the building if they threatened Anders. What she had done to Cullen would be a kindness in comparison when she was finished with the others.

The door opened— and Knight-Commander Meredith walked in.

She looked over at her templars before looking at her prisoners. “I can handle them from here,” she said, and the templars nodded and left the room.

Hawke looked up at Meredith. Meredith looked down at her. The aura in the room had shifted; Hawke could reach out to the Fade again. But somehow, she felt that she probably shouldn’t try. Not yet. Not with Anders in the room if something went wrong.

“Champion,” said Meredith. “I hear you had a… scuffle this morning.”

Hawke said nothing.

“If I may remind you,” said Meredith, and she turned and began to pace thoughtfully, “You are an apostate. I allow you to operate freely in the city because you have protected it and agreed that you will continue to do so. If I suspect that is no longer the case, then I may decide your status needs to change.”

“Threats aren’t going to work on me,” said Hawke.

“I am not threatening you,” said Meredith, and she turned to look back at Hawke. “I am merely asking you to justify the confidence Kirkwall has granted you.”

“Then why am I here?” Hawke shot back.

“Because I have a task for you,” said Meredith. “Show me that you are still willing to do what a Champion must do.”

“Or?” It wasn’t the smartest thing to say, but Hawke was in a mood.

Meredith flicked her eyes to the corner where Anders was huddled and then back to Hawke. It was the smallest gesture, and the most cruel one, and Hawke had never hated anyone more in her life than she hated Meredith in that moment. They looked each other in the eyes, and something passed between them, then— a silent but sure acknowledgment that, eventually, one of them was going to kill the other.

But then the Knight-Commander continued talking as though nothing had happened. “Several mages recently escaped from the Gallows. It was an insurrection. Some of my own templars orchestrated the escape, presumably out of sympathy. Most of these apostates have been apprehended and taken care of, but three remain. I want you to track them down and either return them or kill them."

“I will force no mage back under your yoke,” said Hawke.

Meredith looked at her pointedly. “You are welcome to try to play games with me. There are several templars in the next room over who I’m sure would enjoy nothing more than to subdue not one, but two apostates.”

Oh, how Hawke hated her. She was wicked, utterly and thoroughly morally bankrupt, and Hawke thought her heart might catch fire from the sheer hatred that seared through it. She looked over at Anders. He was still, as he had been the whole time, in his mortal form— perhaps he didn’t want to try being Justice, not when this much was at stake— and he was terrified and disgusted all at once, but his eyes were also pleading with Hawke to not do anything dangerous.

Hawke looked back over at Meredith. She was going to kill her. Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon.

“Good,” said Meredith. Hawke hadn’t said anything, but apparently her silence had been acceptance enough. “I have a Tranquil assistant named Elsa who I will send in shortly to discuss the details with you. I look forward to your cooperation.” Meredith nodded at Hawke curtly, then, and then left the room.

As soon as she had, Anders and Hawke were in each other’s arms. They weren’t in the clear just yet; there were templars guarding them right outside the door. But they would be free to go soon enough, at least.

“Marian.” Anders choked out her name and he held her face in his hands. “I thought—”

“I’m here, love.” Hawke held him tightly. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t— I will _kill_ anyone who ever tries to hurt you.” Her thoughts and emotions were tumbling forward piecemeal and she wasn’t quite sure how to translate them into words.

Anders held her, and his worry had melted into anger. “Forcing you to work against mages to make sure the city sees that she has you under her thumb. Sending in a Tranquil to flaunt what she can do to us and rub our faces in it like animals.” His eyes flashed, but his arms were tender as he slipped them around Hawke’s waist. “I will not let her have you,” he vowed. “I would die first.”

“You don’t have to die,” said Hawke. Her hands were in Anders’ hair, which she thought was the most natural place for them to be. “I won’t let it come to that.”

And Anders looked at her, then, and he had a strange expression in his eyes that Hawke couldn’t quite place. He seemed startled, almost. Or confused. Why? Surely this wasn’t news to him? She had told him, again and again, that she would protect him from all harm. She just had moments ago, in fact.

…or did he think that it was going to get to a point where even she would be helpless?

That was terrifying, because he had _seen_ her at work. He knew exactly who she was. She could fight and maim and kill and with enough allies she had no doubt that she could even take on Meredith. What had spooked Anders, so?

But then it was gone, as though that odd fleeting look had never happened. Everything went back to how it was, and immediately after Elsa was in the room to talk to them.

But Hawke took Anders’ hand in hers.

Because she wanted him to know that there was no threat to him that she would not figure out how to best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...aaand that's the story of how he got that lip scar.
> 
> As always the vast majority of dialogue from Elthina and Cullen here is lifted directly from the game because I like to play around with that. I really had a lot of fun with this chapter and I hope you guys are enjoying my asshole Hawke!


	31. Last Of The Real Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke saves one Emile de Launcet and then becomes a part of the Mage Underground.

A week later, two of three of the escaped mages had been apprehended.

Specifically, they had been killed.

One was an elf from the alienage in Lowtown. The other, a Fereldan refugee who had gone to the Gallows to flee the Blight. Both had panicked, upon seeing Hawke, and had resorted to blood magic and demons and both had to be killed.

Hawke felt awful. She wanted to help mages, not kill them. And yet here she was, two mages dead because of her, their death cries fresh in her mind, and she saw the effect that was having. She saw the whispers people shared amongst themselves when they saw her on the street.

She saw the fear in the eyes of the mages in the Gallows when they happened to see her pass by.

“They’re scared of me,” Hawke said. She and Anders were at a bizarre and dark little shop called the Black Emporium. They were there in order to meet up with with a couple of Anders’ associates. The place was secluded and its owner immobile, so it was about as secure as any. They had arrived early, though, and the two of them talked as they browsed the store’s shelves. Hawke wiped dust off an old potion bottle; the potion inside was glowing dark purple and she didn’t really want to know what was inside. She turned and looked over at Anders. “I’ve seen the looks the mages give me when I stop by to talk to Solivitus. They know I have to do what Meredith says. They know I’ve killed mages who have escaped.” She sighed and looked down to the ground. She felt angry and defeated. Meredith was, no doubt, simply using her as a tool in a toolbox. By showing that she had even the willful Champion of Kirkwall on a firm leash, no one could deny her power.

“Sweetheart.” Anders approached her; he was a warm and comforting presence in the dark hut. “I know the truth. And so does most of the Mage Underground. And the rest of Kirkwall will see it too, someday. I promise.”

That was comforting, and she smiled at him and then turned to look at a small amulet on a counter which had caught her attention. The amulet featured a golden sunburst on a crimson field. This sunburst, though, was different than the familiar symbol denoting the Chantry. It was more imposing, somehow— more deadly. “What’s this?” she asked.

Anders looked. “That’s the symbol of the Imperial Chantry,” he said. “You know. The religion the Vints have got. The one our Chantry pretends doesn’t exist.” He smiled.

“Do you know much about Tevinter?” Hawke asked. She was curious. She didn’t know much about it herself, aside from the many infamous rumors that most people knew.

“I know a little,” Anders said. “You learn a bit of history at the Circle. And I know of all the typical legends. You know, the bits about sacrificing virgins and kittens.”

Hawke chuckled. “Is Fenris right? Are they all blood mages and slavers?”

Anders shrugged. “I haven’t been there so I can’t say. I imagine there’s a fair number of them. It’s an empire in decline, I’m sure it’s got its fair share of problems. But I won’t lie— I used to think about it a lot, back in the Circle. I dreamed of going there, maybe not to stay, but just to see. Can you even imagine a world where you aren’t judged just for being gifted with magic? Where it’s not odd if people see you on the street? Where parents can grow up with a mage child and love them? I’m not saying that Tevinter is perfect— it’s not. But… I don’t know. It was comforting to think about a world more like that, sometimes.”

Hawke nodded. She knew what he meant. The world wore on you when you weren’t like everyone else. It was nice to have a reminder that things didn’t have to be like that.

She looked at the amulet again, and then took a gold coin and swapped positions with it and the amulet. The coin seemed to melt into the table as soon as it had. That was how you bought things here and Hawke didn’t question it. She turned and handed the amulet to Anders. “For you. A gift.”

“I hardly think I’ve done anything to deserve a gift,” said Anders.

“Sweetheart, you are impossible sometimes, do you know that?” Hawke smiled and kissed him. “It’s shiny and subversive. Much like you, when you get all blue and fiery.”

Anders laughed lightly and took it. “I like it. I doubt I’ll wear it on the outside of my clothes— I’m not that eager to face a hangman’s noose— but I appreciate the thought. Maybe someday I can get you something that’s just as meaningful.”

Hawke took him in her arms. “You say that as though your smile is not the best gift in the world.”

They held each other close for a moment, and it was warm and quiet. Hawke breathed in the familiar scent of that feathered coat that she loved so well. It had grown ragged over the years but that only increased her fondness for it. Anders dipped his head down to kiss Hawke’s forehead, and she was about to kiss him back when there was a sound at the door and they pulled apart and looked over.

Three people walked in, their identities entirely obscured by dark hooded cloaks. Hawke had never seen them before, but Anders must have recognized them because he nodded to them and they nodded back. Then they looked over to Hawke, and the leader of them spoke. “This is the companion you told us of?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Anders. “She is one of us.”

Hawke was thrilled at this, but she could also feel the hooded figures’ eyes on her. They were judging her, trying to decide if she was truly trustworthy. It was obvious who she was, standing there in that armor bestowed upon her by the Knight-Commander herself. And between that and the knowledge that she had been responsible for the deaths of two apostates lately, Hawke could not and would not blame them for their judgment. She swallowed nervously. _Let me help_ , she thought. _I want to help._

They seemed to trust Anders, though, so after several long and somewhat awkward seconds of silence, they nodded at her. “We are glad to have you with us, Champion,” their leader said. She pulled something from out of her cloak; it was a bundle of several envelopes. These she passed to Anders, who took them and tucked them away under his long coat. “Are you still up for tomorrow night?” she then asked.

“Yes,” said Anders.

“We will meet you then.” And the woman and her two associates turned and left.

“Tomorrow night?” Hawke asked when they were gone.

“I’ll tell you that bit at home,” said Anders. “And I’ll show you the letters, too.” He smiled at Hawke, and she thrilled at it and felt part of something grand and wonderful.

  


They arrived home and holed themselves up in the bedroom a few moments later. Anders pulled off his coat and hung it up and put the letters on the desk. Hawke examined them; each one was sealed with the wax stamp of a ram’s head.

It wasn’t a sigil she recognized from anywhere, so she decided to ask. “Who has the ram heraldry?”

“I do,” said Anders. “Well. It’s not heraldry so much as a password. Most of us in the Underground have our own symbol. Correspondence is stamped with that symbol, denoting who it’s meant for.”

Hawke found this fascinating. She wondered if she’d get her own symbol and which one she could get. It couldn’t be a hawk, of course, because that would be too obvious. “Do you get to pick your own? Symbol, I mean.”

“I picked mine,” said Anders.

“Any reason for it?” Hawke asked curiously.

Anders looked over at her, and his eyes were sad, almost. “You grew up in Ferelden. You saw rams everywhere, I assume.”

“I saw a few,” said Hawke. “But only from a distance.”

Anders nodded. “Here’s the thing with rams. In a harsh Fereldan winter, rams are the best friend you can have. Their wool makes the best coats anywhere in Thedas. You can put the hide up on a window to keep the drafts and snow out. You can use the fat to make candles. And there’s the meat, of course, enough to feed a family for weeks. When everything seems dire and hope is almost lost, one ram can mean the difference between life and death.”

“And so can one man?” Hawke smiled.

Anders smiled back. “And so can one man. Anyway. Let’s see what we’ve got.” He sat down and cracked open the envelope and pulled out a completely blank piece of paper. Hawke was confused, until Anders proceeded to take a small crystal from the other end of the desk— which Hawke had always assumed was just a pretty paperweight— and then he cast a quick spell and the crystal lit up with light, illuminating the paper and allowing words to come into view. Hawke leaned over to take a look. It was a list of names.

“Allies?” Hawke asked.

Anders nodded. “People outside of Kirkwall that we can trust to smuggle escaped mages to.” He pocketed the list; Hawke noted that the letters on the paper disappeared again as soon as they were out of range of the crystal’s light.

He opened the next letter and the next and the next after that. Most of them were lists of names or items or places, and Anders explained the meaning of each one to Hawke as he sorted through them and every single time he did it gave her a thrill. He trusted her. He was letting her help. She loved him ferociously as she watched him, attentive and taking careful note of the instructions on the last letter. That letter detailed a time and a place. “This is what they were talking about when we were at the Emporium,” said Anders. “Tomorrow, I’m going to help smuggle a new group of mages out of the Gallows. Things are getting bad. They’ve got mages confined to cells day in and day out. They treat dogs better.” Anders’ eyes were hard as he spoke.

“Can I come?” asked Hawke.

“Would you like to?” Anders looked up at her.

“Yes,” said Hawke without hesitation.

Anders smiled and his eyes softened. “I am the luckiest man in Thedas. Do you know that?”

Hawke’s heart was brimming with love and adoration and she climbed onto his lap and he held her there. She was concerned, though. “Are you sure they won’t mind having me there? I don’t… I don’t know if they trust me, entirely.”

“They trust you because they trust me,” said Anders.

“Do… they know?” Hawke asked. “About. You and I. Us.”

“I’ve never mentioned it specifically,” Anders said, “But I feel like they’ve probably figured it out. I… may or may not have gotten angry with some people for speaking ill of you. And I may or may not have been glowing blue when that happened.” There was that lopsided smile, and Hawke put her hands up on his face, her fingers curled behind his ears, inching up towards his golden hair. Anders leaned forward and kissed her. “It’s happening tomorrow night, if you don’t have any other plans,” he murmured into her cheek. He had an arm around her and one hand up on her back.

Hawke ran her hands through Anders’ hair. “I have an appointment with the de Launcets tomorrow. It’s about their son, the last apostate I’m supposed to track down.” Anders had moved his hand down to her belt, which he’d idly loosened enough to get a hand up her bare back, and she reveled in the touch of his fingers on her skin. “I… only hope I can do more for him than I could with the other mages.” Her hands were still in Anders’ hair, but she looked down.

Anders gently took her chin with his free hand and lifted it so she could look into his eyes. “You’re doing the best you can. Please don’t beat yourself up over it. We’re going to take care of Meredith, eventually. You’ll see.”

That was encouraging, and Hawke decided to believe him. She pressed herself against him, tucking her head right up underneath his chin, where it always seemed to fit perfectly. “Do we need to bring anything special for this? Or can we just go straight there after we talk to the de Launcets?”

Anders gently ran his fingers up and down Hawke’s back. “No. Just us. There will be others meeting us and they should have anything we need.”

Hawke kissed his neck then, and he kissed her forehead, and they were too thoroughly distracted by the other to do anything else that night, so they wound up in bed together and soon after that Anders fell asleep and Hawke held him close like she always did.

But she was awake for a little while and her mind wandered to the letters on the desk and to Anders being a ram.

_When everything seems dire and hope is almost lost, one ram can mean the difference between life and death._

And although Hawke hadn’t said anything at the time, she couldn’t stop thinking _and the ram must give up his life to do so_ , and she clutched Anders ever tighter to her breast.

  


The de Launcets were… well. Hawke might have said they weren’t what she was expecting, except knowing that they were Orlesian, they were in fact exactly what she was expecting.

Their Hightown mansion was immense, and Hawke and Anders were both invited in by a butler who set them down in the front room, where they were promptly met by the comtesse. “The Champion of Kirkwall!” She exclaimed in a thick Orlesian accent. “What a marvelous day indeed. When first I heard you were coming, I could scarcely believe my ears. Your visit means much to us, Champion.”

“You’re rather cheery for a woman whose son is wanted by the templars,” said Hawke.

“You are here about Emile, then?” The comtesse sat herself down across from them and smoothed out her overly extravagant dress. “The templars were just asking about our poor boy recently. But I haven’t seen him since he was taken to the Circle. He was just six, then. But you can tell the templars not to worry. I’m sure he’ll turn himself in soon. He is a good boy.”

And that was when the Comte de Launcet walked in and interrupted her. “Dulci! You should have told Emile to hand himself over. He has been telling people he’s our son and that you gave him gold!”

“D… darling!” the comtesse was distraught. “We have guests!”

“Don’t stop on my account,” said Hawke.

“I am sorry, Champion,” said the comtesse. “I didn’t mean to lie to you. I barely saw him. I gave him some money, just a little— he wanted to start a new life. 

The comte snorted. “A new life? He wastes it on cheap wine in taverns in Lowtown. It’s a wonder the templars haven’t found him yet.” He turned to Hawke. “Please, Champion. He’s not dangerous. He’s just a foolish boy. Don’t let the templars have him.”

“I won’t,” said Hawke, and she stood up to leave without another word. Her actions had already led to the deaths of two apostates. She refused to be the cause of another.

  


Emile de Launcet was in the Hanged Man. It was easy to pick him out: he was the most out-of-place person there. He also had no real idea what he was doing. He ordered bizarre choice of drink after bizarre choice of drink, but Hawke did have to admit it was working, because he was thoroughly inebriated.

She approached. “Emile de Launcet?”

He shook his head as if to clear it and looked around in _many_ directions before finally looking up at Hawke. “Whoa! Are you a mage? Because you just… magicked my breath away!”

Hawke sighed. “As a matter of fact… I _am_ a mage.”

“Really? I am a mage too!” Emile replied. “I’m a blood mage, in fact.”

“Is that so,” Hawke deadpanned.

“Oh yes. They say it’s _very_ sexy. In bed. Oh, my name is Emile.”

“I know,” said Hawke.

Emile didn’t let up. “And you are?”

“Feeling very sorry for you.”

Anders looked over at Hawke. “He’s lived in the Circle all his life. He can’t function in the real world.”

Hawke nodded. Honestly she was just glad to see him still in one piece. She looked back down at him. “Listen carefully, because I’m trying to help you. The templars are after you.”

“What? Oh. _Oh_.” He jumped up from the chair. “Listen. I know what this looks like, and I can explain. I’m not really a blood mage, okay? I just… I thought it would make me sound suave.”

“Do you have a death wish?” Anders asked him. “You know what templars do to blood mages.”

“I’ve only told people in the tavern,” Emile pleaded. “You don’t understand… I’ve been in the Circle since I was six! That’s twenty years! I’ve never had a real drink, or cooked something for myself… never stood in the rain or kissed a girl.”

“Really?” Anders quipped. “The Fereldan Circle was much more fun. Everyone was kissing everyone.”

Emile sighed. “I just wanted to live a little. That’s all. Look, if you’re going to kill me, do it quick.”

Hawke reached over and grabbed him and pulled him close. “Listen. You were given a chance that most mages don’t get. Take that money you have and stop wasting it on drinks that aren’t even that good. Get out of Kirkwall.”

Emile was stunned. “You’re… letting me go?”

“Yes,” said Hawke. “But I’m going to tell the templars that you’re dead, so you’re going to have to leave quickly. Do you understand me?”

Emile looked at her. “Yes… yes! Of course! Thank you. I won’t forget this. I won’t.” He made for the door— stumbling a bit on his way out— and then was gone.

Anders wrapped an arm around Hawke. “Saved one,” he said, and he kissed her cheek.

“I wish I had saved more,” said Hawke.

“Tonight,” Anders murmured into her ear. “You will.”

  


Moments later they were in the Gallows. Hawke had marched in, her eyes cold steel, and demanded to speak to the Knight-Commander. A templar led her in, and the hurtful looks that the few mages walking around gave her as she headed in just fueled her hatred for the entire system.

Meredith looked up at them as they arrived in her office. “Champion.”

Hawke said nothing.

“I heard that two of the mages you were tasked to find have been killed, but the third is, mysteriously, nowhere to be found,” Meredith continued.

“He’s dead,” said Hawke.

Meredith narrowed her eyes. “Is he? How strange that there were no reports of a fight or a body.”

Hawke stared right back at her. She wasn’t going to waste time playing games with this woman. “The blame for everything these mages did can be laid at your feet. Do you know when mages are most susceptible to the whispers of demons? When they are emotionally compromised. What do you think keeping them in cages like animals does to them? What do you think torturing them does to them?”

For a moment, Meredith was quiet, and Hawke wasn’t sure if she was going to respond. But then she said “You seem to be under the impression that I have not heard these arguments before. Maybe they are not corrupt. Maybe they deserve leniency. Maybe they can be saved. There are maybes enough to fill half the graves in Kirkwall, Champion. I will not add more to the pile.” She nodded at her. “The Templar Order thanks you for your service. And we look forward to your _continued service._ ” There was a threat there, low and dark, and Hawke felt rage steaming up to her ears and she turned and left without saying anything else.

Anders was there, beside her. “We won’t let her win,” he said.

“I hate her,” said Hawke bitterly.

“I know.” Anders took her hand, and as soon as he did, she felt the hatred in her heart begin to thaw, replaced with a warm, glowing love for the man who was always at her side.

They left the Gallows quickly— the place was horrible and radiated darkness— and as soon as they had Hawke spun on him and kissed him fervently. “We’re going to free them all,” she vowed. “Every last one.”

Anders kissed her back eagerly, and there was an infectious, shining zeal in his eyes— a kid at Wintersend, Hawke couldn’t help but think. “You’re ready for that, then? I feel that war is coming— and sooner than we might think it is.”

“I’m ready.” Hawke pushed her forehead up against his. “Point me at who you want me to kill.” She was thoroughly serious as she said that, and Anders knew she was because he kissed her again.

He pulled away and looked around; no one was nearby. “It’s about time we head to our meeting point.”

“Lead the way,” said Hawke.

  


Anders led them to Darktown, as Hawke had expected. She had wondered if they were going to use the old lyrium tunnels again from last time, but apparently that was off the table now that the templars were well aware of it. Anders led Hawke to a rickety building filled with debris and old furniture. There was a secret passageway hidden behind that furniture, which plunged them down into darkness. Anders lit the way with his staff, and eventually the rough passageway opened up into a slightly larger underground space about the size of their bedroom. There were a few old chairs scattered about here and there, as well as some lyrium bottles and crates filled with various other goods. Hawke looked around— no one else was there yet. “Is this the meeting place?”

“Yes,” said Anders. “The others will be joining us soon enough, I’m sure.” He looked over at Hawke, and for just a moment, there in the dim light, his face seemed to be much more gaunt than usual— but then it passed.

Hawke looked past where they were standing; there was another tunnel that led further into the darkness. It looked rough and man-made, just like the space they were occupying now. “Does that lead to the Gallows?”

“Mm-hmm. It was a work in progress for many years, but it was completed a few months ago. We are now able to shuttle several mages out of the Gallows with a great deal of efficiency. There’s another tunnel that branches off from it and leads to a natural cave which then opens up just outside the city.” Anders was flipping through a few papers in a bag on a chair as he spoke. One or two of them he pocketed while he slipped a new one inside, and Hawke watched all of this with fascination.

“The templars haven’t discovered any of this, yet?” Hawke asked.

“Not yet,” said Anders. “There are… supposedly a few templars that are in on it and are helping to keep it all under wraps. I don’t deal with them, because I don’t trust them. But so far, they haven’t betrayed us, so I suppose I have to thank them, even despite my misgivings.” He looked up at Hawke. “I don’t know how much longer we even have to worry about it, though. Things are about to boil over. I can feel it. I’m not sure exactly how or when, but— soon.”

There was a sound behind them then, and Hawke turned to see a hooded figure enter the little room. It was the same hooded figure from the Black Emporium, who removed her hood and nodded her greetings to them. “The others are right behind me,” she said. “Are you ready?”

“Whenever everyone else is,” said Anders.

After that, things happened very fast. Five more people piled in within the next few minutes— about half of whom were mages, and half of whom were not— and then moments later they were all running through the muddied tunnels to take their places. Everyone had an assigned post. Two people were going to be at the Gallows proper. Then there would be four people spread throughout the rest of the tunnels, directing the escaped mages and sending them where they needed to go. Hawke and Anders would be at the exit at the end, just outside the city. They headed there now, Anders leading the way because he had been there before. The location, once they reached it, was oddly serene in contrast to the tense emotions that everyone had been displaying just moments earlier. Stars dotted the sky, and one or two crickets chirped and an owl hooted in the distance. There was a breeze on the air and it was chilly, and Hawke opted to stay a bit further back in the cave where there was more shelter. Anders pointed out that this was a good idea anyway, as then they would be able to help the smuggled mages as soon as possible.

There was nothing left to do then but wait. And Hawke actually didn’t have to wait as long as she thought she would. They had been at their post for ten minutes, perhaps, when they heard desperate scrambling coming from down the tunnel, and she and Anders ran down to meet the first of several mage refugees.

There were about a dozen of them, all told, making their way to the cave exit one at a time. They represented every type of mage: young and old, human and elf, apprentice and enchanter. Some of them looked determined; others relieved, and others terrified. “Is everything okay up top?” Anders asked one of the mages who looked to be in better shape than the others.

The mage he’d asked nodded her head. “So far so good,” she said. “There are three templars helping us. They’ve tricked the others into avoiding the area. I don’t think it’s caused any suspicion yet, although I don’t expect that to last.”

“They’re going to find out about it eventually,” Hawke said. “What’s going to happen then? Will we have to abandon this tunnel?”

“That has been considered,” said the other mage. “It was carefully planned. This escape has been rigged so it will look like the mages have escaped on their own through another route.”

“Will Meredith fall for that?” Hawke asked.

“We don’t know,” said the mage. “The best we can do is wait and see.”

There was no more time for questions after that, because then there was yelling and shouting somewhere along the tunnel. Anders spun on the newly escaped mages. “Stay here!” he instructed, and then he dashed down the corridor with Hawke right behind him.

Between the darkness of the tunnels and the the bobbing light of Anders’ staff, Hawke couldn’t see much, but the racket ahead of them told enough. Hawke heard the clash of sword on sword— templars fighting templars, she assumed— and she heard rocks falling, and then Anders came to a skidding halt in front of her and she almost ran into him. She tossed her head up; in the dim light she could barely make out two people heading toward them. The first was one of the volunteers that had met them in the little underground room earlier; there was mud on his robe and he had a bloody nose but otherwise he appeared to be in decent condition. With him was a young man, no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, and he had been stripped down to his smallclothes. The first man looked over at them. “This is the last we’ll be able to get to tonight,” he said. “We were discovered. We’ve got mages up there using a spell to cave the tunnel in. It will buy us enough time to get out if we’re quick.”

“Is everyone else alright?” asked Anders.

“No time to find out now. I’ve got to go back.” He turned, then, and rushed away, and Anders and Hawke turned to run back, escorting the young man with them.

“Where are your clothes?” Anders asked him as they ran back.

“Gone,” said the boy. “I’ve been in the dungeons the last three days. They accused me of conspiring with blood mages. I haven’t, I swear.”

“I know,” said Anders softly.

“They were going to kill me, I know they were,” the young man continued. “If they even remembered me at all. They forgot to feed me today.”

“We are going to end their cruelty soon,” Anders said firmly. “I promise.”

They were quiet until they reached the cave at the end of the tunnel. Everyone was gathered there, and Anders gave them directions on where to go. There were places that acted as safe houses, he told them, all along the rural Free Marches, and there were people there who would help them and guide them to the next closest person in the chain. From there they could make their way to family or friends to help them, or in the absence of that, various places run by sympathizers who were willing to give them a job and some basic help. He handed them each a scrap of paper with lists of names and instructions, and Hawke thought she might burst with pride as he did so. This is what he had been doing in his spare time. For years! When he wasn’t helping people at his clinic he was helping people here. She loved him, and she would never stop loving him.

Once everyone was sorted, they all headed out, on their way to the first checkpoint on the list. All of them, that is, except for the young man who was in nothing but his smallclothes. He stood at the mouth of the cave, shivering as he looked out at the wind, his arms wrapped around himself. “How long will it take me?” he asked. “To get to the… closest safe place, I mean.”

And Anders pulled off his coat— that beautiful feathered coat that Hawke loved so well, that she had cried on, bled on, pressed herself into on so many occasions— and he put it on the boy’s back. “About an hour if you’re quick,” he said. “Stay off the road and in the shadows. You’ll be alright.”

The boy looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you. For everything.” And then he headed away, and Hawke watched him go, wearing that coat that she would never see again, and suddenly she knew what it meant to be in love with someone who was destined to save the world.

  


It was very late when they staggered home— past midnight, Hawke guessed. Although the mages’ escape itself had been a success, the aftermath was nasty. The templars now knew about the tunnel, and although mages had successfully caved it in to prevent anyone from coming out the other side, it was now unusable. Any future escapes would have to be made in an entirely different way. Two of their own people were out of commission for the time being— they had survived, but were heavily injured— and apparently their sympathetic templar contacts had all been killed. Hawke still didn’t trust templars whatsoever, but she did hope that these particular ones had found personal penance for their wrongdoings in death.

She was exhausted when she got home, both physically and emotionally, and she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with Anders beside her and sleep everything away. But Anders, it seemed, was in a completely different mood. He was wired and paced around the bedroom as Hawke pulled off her armor and changed into her house robes. He hadn’t changed himself— he was in the plain brown shirt and slacks that he always wore under his coat, the one which was by now hopefully far away with its new owner in safe hands. “Anders,” she told him softly. “You’re making me more tired just watching you.” She smiled at him from the bed.

“We need to do something,” said Anders. He hadn’t looked at her; he was still pacing.

“About the Mage Underground?” Hawke asked.

“About _everything_ ,” said Anders. “Building another tunnel will take months. Do you know how many mages are going to die between now and then?”

 _Too many_ , Hawke thought.

“We need to do something drastic,” Anders continued. He still wasn’t looking at her as he made another loop around the room. “I don’t know what. But I’ll think of something.”

“I’ll help you,” said Hawke. _But for now you need to rest, love_ , she added mentally. He was stressed and she knew he was, and she didn’t think he’d get any planning done in this state.

Anders turned on her, then, and there was an almost wild desperation in his eyes. “I… don’t know if you should,” he said.

“Why not?” Hawke asked.

“If… if something should happen to me…” Anders resumed his pacing. “I’m going to need someone to carry on the revolution for me. And that person should be you. You have been… _indispensible_ to me, and I am endlessly grateful, but—”

“Anders.” Hawke cut him off and stood up and walked over to him. She didn’t like where he was going with this. “You don’t need to worry about something happening to you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Marian.” Anders turned to look at her; she was very close but he wasn’t reaching for her like he usually did, and _that_ bothered her too. Something was wrong. “You don’t understand,” he told her. “We’re reaching a breaking point, and—”

“I _do_ understand.” She reached out to pull him close, and he didn’t resist, but he didn’t cooperate either. “Yes, we are reaching a breaking point. Yes, a lot of scary things are going to happen. I know. And I’m here.”

Anders didn’t respond, and Hawke knew him well enough by now to know that he was having one of the moments sometimes did where everything was too much. “Come on,” she murmured into his hair, and she pulled him over to the bed, where she sat him down and held him to her chest.

He didn’t seem to respond to her touch, and he just sat there sort of numbly as Hawke held him and stroked his hair and whispered loving words into his ear. His heart was beating very quickly, and it took many, _many_ long minutes for it to slow to a pace that resembled a normal one, but Hawke was endlessly patient and loving, and finally, _finally_ , he began to reach a point where he could reciprocate her warmth and he wrapped his arms around her and pressed himself into her. “Marian,” he mumbled into her. She looked down; his eyes were red-rimmed. “It’s all… it’s all so much.”

“I know,” Hawke whispered. “I’m here for you. Don’t ever doubt it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we swing into the vaguely-AU side of this fic. I had fun coming up with Mage Underground stuff. Thank you for reading!


	32. Bad Girls Do It Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders gets a new coat, Hawke threatens not one, but TWO people at a ballroom dance, and a very special guest star makes an appearance. Also there's smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a bit of smut about two-thirds of the way through the chapter.

The next few months didn’t go quite the way Hawke was expecting them to.

She didn’t hear a thing from Meredith, to begin with. She kept waiting for another summons from her, for her to threaten her into doing her dirty work again. But every day she came home expecting a letter from her on her desk, and every day there wasn’t one. Hawke wondered at this. Had Meredith abruptly changed tactic? Was her paranoia finally starting to best her? Hawke certainly wasn’t going to _complain_ about not hearing anything from her, but she also didn’t trust it.

After the collapse of the Mage Underground’s latest plan, Anders spent about a week thoroughly distraught, alternating between bouts of depression and righteous furor. Hawke helped him through it the best she could; holding him and stroking his hair on the days when he refused to leave the bed, and bringing him food on the days when he’d sit at his desk for hours and work on his manifesto. Those were the days when he was his spirit self more than he was his mortal self, but Hawke loved every aspect of him and was intent on showing it so he would always remember.

Both time and Hawke’s presence seemed to help Anders through the rough bits, and by the end of the week Anders was considerably more cheery and upbeat as he asked Hawke to read through his latest draft. She did so happily as she stood beside the desk where he was sitting, pausing every so often to offer suggestions or praise an especially gripping passage or simply to kiss the top of his head from pride. “You’re doing important work,” she told him. “I hope you know that.”

“I’d like the world to see what I see,” said Anders. “But even if I can convince no one else, at least I’ll have you at my side.” He smiled at Hawke with loving eyes, and she wrapped him up in her arms because it had been years and she still loved him as much as she did from the beginning. She noticed a tiny, almost imperceptible patch of gray hair right behind his ear, and she kissed that spot tenderly.

It was about another week after that when Anders came home with a new outfit. He’d mentioned to Hawke that he wanted to replace the coat he’d given away, and that he’d contacted the person who’d made that one to make his new one. Hawke couldn’t wait to see it. Much as she didn’t want to admit it, she’d missed that coat. “Please tell me it’ll have just as many feathers,” Hawke said with a smile.

Anders kissed her. “I wouldn’t dream of having it any other way.”

So the day he came home with his new coat was a happy one. To Hawke, he looked extraordinarily snappy and handsome. The coat was similar to his old one in design, although with a few tweaks. Perhaps most notably, Anders had opted for black and gold this time rather than green and gold. The feathers, too, were pitch black, and the contrast against his flaxen hair was striking.

Hawke approached him with a rather teasing smile and put her hands up on his chest. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed seeing you in feathers,” she said. It was a ridiculous thing to say, and it was even more ridiculous that she was saying it flirtatiously, but it was the truth.

Anders took her head in his hands and kissed her. “The two things I need to be whole. Feathers on my shoulders and you at my side.” He’d meant it to be a wisecrack, but they were so thoroughly smitten with each other that it turned sincere halfway through and they kissed each other passionately.

They pulled away, finally, and Hawke had to ask. “Any reason for the color change? Just felt like a new style?”

“It seemed appropriate,” said Anders. “What with war coming and all. There’s probably going to be a lot of death and destruction and I thought… that black fit.”

Most people would probably have found the sudden dark shift in topic unsettling, but Hawke wasn’t like most people, and she simply nodded in understanding. “Still,” she admitted, “It’s a bit… dreary, don’t you think?”

“I thought the gold would help set it off.” Anders gave her a wry smile.

“It does, but you could use more color still,” Hawke said. “Have you considered red?”

Anders laughed; his arms were still around her and he tightened them to give her a squeeze. “You do love to bedeck me in red, don’t you?”

“I’m just saying,” Hawke smiled.

She kept good on her word, and a few days later his outfit mysteriously disappeared for a few hours while he worked on his writing and when she returned it, it had been modified. “Here,” she said, handing it over to him. “I had Orana fix your new coat.”

Anders took it and unrolled it; there, carefully stitched on the right sleeve with crimson thread, was the Amell crest. He grinned. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“Nope.” Hawke wrapped her arms around him. “You’re mine. I want everyone to know it.”

“The ring and the hair tie aren’t enough?” Anders was all alight with happiness as he turned to kiss her cheek.

“Never, ever enough,” said Hawke.

  


After that, things seemed to approach normalcy. It was odd, almost, how quiet things were. Hawke didn’t like it. It made her antsy. She brought it up to Anders in the bath one night. They’d finished washing each other and were sharing a quiet moment together while the water was still warm. Anders had Hawke pulled up against his chest; he had one arm around her stomach and with his other hand he was gently playing with her hair. “Is anything happening?” she asked him. “With the Mage Underground.”

Anders shook his head. “Not beyond what I’ve told you already. We’ve been trying to formulate a new plan for freeing mages, though without much success. A few people have suggested we storm the Gallows— but that would just be a bloodbath all around.”

Hawke sighed and pressed her head back into Anders’ chest. “I’m worried. We haven’t heard from Meredith for a while. Is she up to something?”

“She might be,” said Anders. “We’ve talked about that too. We have a new contact in the Gallows, so if anything gets truly bad, we should know about it. But. I don’t know.” He rested his chin on top of Hawke’s head. “I’m still trying to think of a way to end it all for good,” he said.

“That’s a tall order,” said Hawke. She could hear Anders’ heartbeat as she pressed her cheek against him, and it was, as always, one of her favorite sounds.

“It is,” Anders agreed. “And you know that I like those.”

Hawke smiled. She did, and she loved that about him. “If anyone can come up with something, you can,” she said.

“Your faith in me knows no bounds,” said Anders, and he kissed the top of her head.

  


Another few weeks after that, Hawke came home and found a very fancy envelope on the desk. Curious, she picked it up and opened it to pull out an even fancier invitation. She was reading it when Anders approached. “That looks expensive,” he said. “Who sent that?”

Hawke flipped the invitation over. “Some noble I’ve never heard of,” she said. “But apparently they have a lot of money.”

“If they’re willing to dye paper pink, then I’d imagine so,” Anders said. “What’s it about?”

“Well, they claim to be holding the biggest ball that Kirkwall has seen in an age and a half,” said Hawke. “And, ‘We would be delighted to have you join us, Messere Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, Inspiration for a Generation.’” She put the invitation down on the desk. “I think that was supposed to be flattering but it came off as slightly terrifying.”

Anders chuckled. “And what is Messere Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, Inspiration for a Generation’s response?”

Hawke sighed. “Well, I suppose I should probably make a token appearance. The more they like me, the more likely they are to support the cause.” She turned and slipped her arms around Anders. “Don’t you think?”

Anders kissed her. “Much as I hate to encourage this, you’re probably right. And Maker knows the cause can use all the help it can get.” He tilted his head to look deep into Hawke’s eyes, and his own were gleaming with devotion as he did. “You are truly the best partner anyone can ask for.”

Hawke kissed him and then turned back to pick up the invitation again. “Looks like it’s next week. I don’t know what to wear to these kinds of things. Just my usual armor?”

“Probably,” said Anders. “I mean, they specifically asked for the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“True.” Hawke looked over at Anders somewhat slyly. “Now we just have to figure out what you should wear. How fashionable do you think feathers are?”

“Me?” Anders was taken aback.

“Yes. You. Look, there’s going to be dancing. I want to dance with my favorite person in the world. Which is you. In case you weren’t aware.” She poked his nose with a finger.

“I… am flattered. But also kind of slightly illegal,” said Anders. “I don’t know if I should go someplace where all of Kirkwall is going to be watching.”

“They won’t touch you. I’ll kill them.” Hawke said this all very candidly and she put the invitation down and headed into the kitchen.

“At a ball?” Anders followed her, and his voice was half joking but also half genuinely incredulous.

“Yes,” said Hawke, popping a biscuit into her mouth. After chewing it, she turned back to Anders. “So, back to figuring out your outfit. Feathers?”

  


Feathers did, in fact, turn out to be the outfit of choice.

Hawke dressed herself in her Champion’s armor and Anders wore his new outfit, all black and gold with the Amell crest on the right sleeve, and they turned up at the mansion together— Hawke’s hand on Anders’ arm.

When the two of them walked in, everyone paused to look over at them. Hawke’s appearance, here, with Anders as her date, made it official. Oh, the rumors had been flying around for years. That Darktown’s apostate healer had moved in with Hawke, who was later declared the Champion of Kirkwall, had been gossip material for a long time. But this was the first time they had ever blatantly been together like this in public, and everyone turned to stare and whisper.

Hawke, for her part, merely tightened her hold on Anders’ arm and smiled innocently.

They were both greeted shortly after by the woman who was holding the ball. She was dressed extravagantly and didn’t seem to care much that Hawke had a date with her— she was just happy to have the prestigious Champion there. “Do let me know if there is anything I can do for you,” she said cheerfully, before spinning around and going off to greet another guest.

“So.” Anders reached up with a hand to tug at his outfit’s collar. “What are we supposed to do now? Mingle?”

Hawke leaned over and kissed his cheek, and she noticed with some amount of satisfaction that several people stopped to whisper at that action. “Now I show you off,” she said.

Anders laughed nervously. “I’m flattered, but are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It will let everyone know that they aren’t allowed to touch you, so yes.” And Hawke turned to lead him towards a buffet table.

The mansion was gigantic; quite possibly one of the largest in Kirkwall. And many, _many_ people were there. Hawke didn’t know most of them, but they all seemed to know her, and they went up to her one by one and introduced themselves. Hawke nodded in acknowledgment to each one as they approached, and then in turn she happily introduced everyone to Anders. The way she did so differed a bit each time, but for the most part she told the truth and was thoroughly unafraid of introducing him as Anders, Selfless Healer of Darktown, Champion of the Downtrodden, and My Lover. She would then lift his hand to her lips and kiss it to accentuate her point, and Anders would blush and whomever she was talking to would usually promptly remove themselves from their presence. Then Hawke would grin and repeat the process with their next guest.

Then the templars arrived.

She saw Ser Cullen first. She noted that the injuries she’d inflicted on him had healed since then, although she was also very, _very_ pleased to see that she had indeed left a permanent scar on his lip. He spotted her from across the room soon after, and he jumped and then hastily went to hide himself within the rest of the crowd, and Hawke smirked.

There were a few other templars there, most of whom Hawke didn’t recognize, and then— and then she saw Meredith.

The Knight-Commander was an imposing figure in any crowd. She was tall and her wavy blonde hair was easy to spot in a crowd. She turned and locked eyes with Hawke, who stiffened. Beside her, she felt Anders tense. Hawke’s hand was still on Anders’ arm, though, and she tightened her grip. He was hers and no one was going to touch him.

The ball’s hostess ran up to greet Meredith, and the two of them talked for a few terse moments and Hawke wondered if maybe she would leave her alone— at least long enough for her to regain her bearings. But unfortunately Hawke had no such luck, and Meredith turned to approach them.

Hawke stood her ground. Beside her, Anders was doing his best to maintain his composure.

“Champion.” Meredith stopped and stood in front of her. “It has been a while.”

Hawke nodded almost imperceptibly.

“And I see you brought your friend with you.” Meredith turned her cold eyes on Anders, and Hawke had to bite back the urge to punch her just for daring to look at him.

“He is mine,” said Hawke, and her voice was a growl.

“I can see that.” Meredith’s eyes swept over him, no doubt noticing the red sleeve, the ring, the ribbon in his hair— and then she turned back to Hawke. “I’ll assume you know, Champion, that harboring an apostate is illegal.”

“I’ll assume you know, Knight-Commander, that I will personally kill anyone who touches a hair on his head,” Hawke replied calmly.

Meredith’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Hawke.”

“So is existing as a mage.” Hawke refused to blink or look away, and the two of them stared each other down for a long time—

—until finally Meredith nodded her head. “It was nice to visit with you, Champion. The Templar Order, as always, is grateful for your service.” She turned and walked away after that final barb, that reminder that she could still make Hawke do whatever she wanted, and Hawke was livid.

At least, she was until Anders let out a sigh of relief into her hair. “Marian,” he whispered.

“We’re going to kill her,” she whispered back. Her voice was low and soft and she lifted a hand and softly ran it across the stubble on his chin. “I promise that she won’t ever hurt you.”

They had a brief moment of closeness, then, taking a break to comfort each other, but then they were interrupted by more guests and they had to go back to mingling.

It was unfortunate, Hawke thought. Because Anders looked very handsome in his outfit all black and gold— and a bit of red, of course.

There was one guest who wasn’t like the others. She approached Hawke from the side, almost as though she was materializing from the shadows. Hawke nearly didn’t see her coming, and she was talking to her before Hawke could react. “An interesting gathering, no?” she said with an Orlesian accent. “Nobles, mages, and templars, all under one roof.”

“I believe my partner and I are the only mages here,” said Hawke. She didn’t have to be coy about it; that much was already obvious. She turned to look at the woman. She had cropped red hair and blue eyes. Hawke didn’t recognize her. “Do I know you?” she asked.

“You are both Fereldan. You may have heard of me. My name is Leliana.”

Anders spoke up. “ _The_ Leliana? The one who helped the Hero of Ferelden stop the Blight?”

The woman smiled at them. “The very same.”

Hawke had most certainly heard rumors about that famed band of heroes, although she’d never met anyone involved with them. She was still wrapping her head around it when Anders started talking again.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be with… you know…”

“I was made the Left Hand of the Divine by Justinia herself,” Leliana replied. “And I was sent here by her to gather information.”

“And you’re just… telling me all this straight out?” Hawke asked. “I mean, I feel like if you were here to gather information you would do it a little more, I don’t know. Secretly? I could tell you whatever I wanted.”

“You could,” said Leliana. “But I don’t think you will. I think you want to tell me the truth about mages and templars. The Knight-Commander would as well— although her version of the truth would probably be very different. Don’t you think?”

She had a point. Hawke looked over at Anders. Anders looked over at her, and he nodded. “I think she’s right,” he said. “It’s better to let the Divine know what’s going on. And I…” he lowered his voice and pressed his mouth close to Hawke’s ear. “…I trust her, because I trust the Hero of Ferelden. And they are close.”

Hawke nodded and looked back over at Leliana. “Alright,” she said. “What did you want to know?”

“Are the Gallows as bad as they say? I have heard rumors.”

“You can look anywhere and see for yourself,” said Hawke. “They’re making Harrowed mages Tranquil. That’s against Chantry law, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Leliana.

“Then why isn’t the Divine doing anything about it?” Hawke demanded. She hadn’t meant to be argumentative, and yet here she was, doing just that. “Isn’t she the leader of the entire Chantry? Couldn’t she put a stop to it if she wanted?”

“That is easier said than done,” Leliana replied. “I am here to protect the Divine from all potential threats. That includes weighing one threat against another before making a decision. And it could be that this is a situation where the common people will be more effective than we would be.”

Hawke had to turn that phrase over in her head a few times to parse what it meant. “Do you mean,” she asked finally, “That the Divine condones a mage rebellion?”

Leliana smiled. “It is a bit more complicated than that, but to put it simply— perhaps she does. That is not something you heard from me, of course.”

“Huh,” said Hawke. That hadn’t exactly been something she’d expected to hear.

“I don’t know what sort of help distant support from the Grand Cathedral is going to be,” said Anders. “Mages are dying now. Mages are being caged and made Tranquil now.”

“He’s right,” said Hawke. “You and the Divine may have the luxury of sitting here and taking things slowly. We don’t.”

“I understand your concerns,” said Leliana. “It pains me to not be able to be more direct. Unfortunately, we have to look at the grand scheme of things. This is the way things must work sometimes.”

“In a more just world things wouldn’t work like that,” said Hawke.

“Perhaps,” said Leliana. Then she nodded and smiled. “Thank you for your information. I will relay it to the Divine as soon as I can.” She disappeared into the crowd, then, and it only took seconds for Hawke to lose track of her entirely.

“Well,” said Anders. “That was interesting. Although I don’t know how much help it will be in the long run.”

“Better than nothing?” Hawke asked.

“Definitely better than nothing,” Anders agreed. “I would like to think it means that should it come to…” he lowered his voice, “…the Right of Annulment, the Divine will reject it. But that’s… not something I’d prefer to test. Not when lives are at stake. And not with _her_ ,” he nodded in the direction of Meredith, “As Knight-Commander.”

The thought made Hawke shudder. She’d heard about the Right of Annulment, so named because the Chantry held the “right” to slaughter every last mage in a Circle that they deemed dangerous or otherwise failed. 

There were children in the Circle.

Hawke didn’t want to think about it. Oh, it was definitely important to think about, and would have to be thought about at some point, but she’d rather not do so now in public when it would just make her angry.

Anders seemed to feel similarly, and he smiled weakly. “That’s something we can discuss later. I don’t know if the guests here would appreciate the sudden appearance of Justice.”

Before Hawke could respond, a band began to play and a dance was called. Feeling endlessly relieved to have a distraction, Hawke turned to Anders to hold out a hand, but he was already doing so. “Messere Hawke,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

Hawke grinned at him and took his hand, and they set out for the dance floor where Anders put one arm around her waist, and Hawke put a hand up on one of his feathery shoulders, and they began to sway in time to the music. Hawke knew full well how it looked to everyone present. Two apostates, both dressed in battle armor, dancing together with nobles at a ball. In the presence of templars! Hawke looked up every so often to glare at Meredith, who would stare at her back with an unreadable expression. Hawke wondered if she could get a message through to her simply by thinking it. _He’s mine_ , she thought, clutching Anders just a little closer to her as she did so. _And if you want him you will have to go through me._

But then they turned so she wasn’t looking at the templars anymore, and that made her feel better and she concentrated on Anders’ warm presence. He was solid and real, a certain thing in an uncertain world, and she cherished that as they pressed their cheeks together. She felt a sudden rush of giddiness, the same way she might have felt about a childhood crush. It was a tale out of a storybook: being in love with someone and dancing with them at a ball! And yet this was somehow even more unbelievable than those tales. Two mages, in love, enjoying their time together in public. It shouldn’t be unusual, Hawke thought, and the more she thought about how it _was_ unusual, the more absurd society seemed.

Well, she and Anders would just have to fix society.

“I love you,” Anders murmured into her ear, interrupting her thoughts. He was nuzzling into her, almost, and it was sweet. She shut her eyes to cherish the moment, but Anders wasn’t done. He nipped at her earlobe. “Every time I hear you standing for mages… I think to myself, ‘she’s mine, this beautiful, fiery… _storm_ is mine’, and then I…” he moaned and kissed her neck.

“Always yours,” Hawke whispered back, her hand in his hair. “Always, always yours.” She felt herself wanting him, needing him, and Anders’ own state was similar, judging from the way he hungrily sucked on her neck. She opened her eyes and swept them across the room. No one really seemed to be paying attention to them anymore. Everyone was busy dancing or socializing, and Meredith and their templars were talking amongst themselves. She turned her head and pressed her lips up against Anders’ ear. “Do you think there are many hiding spots here?”

Anders looked truly distraught to have to pull himself away from Hawke’s neck, but he did, and looked over her shoulder. “There are stairs,” he said. “Close by. I couldn’t tell you where they lead. But I’m willing to explore a bit, if you are.”

Hawke didn’t need any further encouragement. She took Anders’ hand and the two of them disappeared upstairs. It was darker and quieter, although the revelry below could still be seen and heard from a balcony. Hawke wondered, briefly, if the templars would notice they were missing and then come after them. Mages, of course, could only be up to no good. _Let them come_ , Hawke thought, as she and Anders, unable to keep their hands off each other, stumbled into a dark corner together. His mouth was on her neck again, and then up on her chin and her lips, and Hawke put her hands in his hair as they hungrily kissed.

“Love—” Anders breathed the word out and reached for Hawke’s belt, which he deftly undid while Hawke reached for his robe and hitched it up. They were going to have a tryst right here, right on top of the templars, and Hawke didn’t care. If anything, the thought made it all the more arousing. Fuck the templars. Fuck Meredith. Fuck the Chantry. Fuck everyone who thought that mages weren’t allowed to love, to feel, to live.

“Anders—” Hawke’s fingers dug into his back as he pressed himself inside her, one arm wrapped around her waist tightly and the other up her shirt, fondling her. She moaned and tilted her head back and he pressed his face into her neck. Anders was, as always, as focused on her pleasure as he was on his own, if not moreso, and his hand on her breasts was gentle and teasing at first before moving on to pinching, which he knew Hawke liked, and it took an immense amount of willpower for Hawke to stay quiet as he touched her.

Anders was fully aware of what he was doing, the fiend, and he whispered into Hawke’s ear between breaths. “I’d take all your clothes off here if I could—” he shuddered and then finished the sentence. “—and use my mouth. All over you.”

“If you don’t make good on that promise when we get back home—” Hawke was hit with a wave of pleasure as his thumb and forefinger continued to tease her nipple, and she let out a cry and then maneuvered her head so she could bite into his ear in a desperate bid to stay quiet.

“We could go forever like this,” Anders murmured into her neck. “Grey Warden stamina. The templars would be so scandalized if they ever found out.” But he shuddered as he spoke, and Hawke knew from experience that they were both getting close, and she felt it was all she could do to cling on desperately as he cried out into her neck and bucked into her. Hawke followed suit, biting down onto Anders’ ear hard in an futile attempt to muffle her own cries, and then all was still as they held each other and caught their breaths. Hawke could hear the ongoing low hum of the crowd down below. She felt thoroughly satisfied. That was the best stick in the eye she could give to the templars. Two mages, happy, in love and making love, for all the world to see if they wanted. For centuries mages like them had been forced to shove those desires and feelings down, or risk them in secret. And Hawke, with Anders by her side, would make sure that no mage ever had to hide their love again.

Anders pulled away and looked into her eyes. “Do you think they’ve noticed we’re missing?”

“I hope so,” said Hawke. She was feeling rebellious.

Anders smiled at her. “We’d best get back, regardless.”

As nice as the tender moment they’d shared had been, the idea was prudent. They fixed their clothes and then headed back downstairs, holding hands. Hawke saw that Anders’ hair was a bit astray, and she hoped people noticed that little detail.

It looked like the dancing had ended and mingling was happening again. A new buffet had been set out by the servants, and several people were gathered around. Hawke had to admit she was feeling hungry, and by the look of the way Anders was eying the table, he was as well. “Want to take a look?” she asked.

“You have wonderful ideas, my dear,” said Anders. He kissed her cheek and they headed to the table.

It was crowded, and the two of them got separated, just a bit, as they looked over the food. He was still within eyesight, which was important to her, but he was on the other end of the long table. Hawke was examining a fruit plate when she heard a familiar Starkhaven brogue behind her. “Hawke! I hadn’t seen you come in.”

Hawke turned and saw Sebastian, dressed in his best finery. He bowed at her, and Hawke nodded back. She’d never really considered him a friend, the way she considered most of the rest of her brigade to be one, but he had been useful once or twice and he had money, so she was trying to keep him on her good side.

“I’m actually glad to see you,” he said. Hawke wasn’t terribly eager to see him in return, but she said nothing as he continued, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“About?” Hawke was currently more interested in selecting the biggest chocolate-covered strawberries off of the fruit plate than talking to him, but whatever. She could pretend.

“I… am concerned about what seems to be a brewing mage rebellion,” said Sebastian, and _that_ got Hawke’s attention. What did he know? Did he know that she was involved? She didn’t really trust him. Elthina had him too tightly under her thumb, and whether or not he knew it was of no consequence. What mattered is that she didn’t want him to know what she knew.

“Oh?” said Hawke innocently. She was a good liar, and she decided to use that talent now and bank on the theory that he didn’t know she was involved. It could backfire, but that was a risk she’d have to take.

“I don’t know how much you know about it,” said Sebastian, and Hawke let out an inner sigh of relief. “I know that you are a mage. And you don’t make it a secret that you are friends with apostates. But surely you must know that the entire city could be endangered if they chose to rise up?”

 _That’s kind of the point_ , Hawke thought, although she didn’t say it.

“The Grand Cleric will not let it get that far,” Sebastian continued. “But I worry for her safety, and for the safety of the civilians here.”

“Mm.” It was a neutral noise as she popped a strawberry in her mouth. She wondered if he knew Anders was there. Everyone who had been around the man for more than a couple of minutes knew that he supported a rebellion. She was starting to get the feeling that Sebastian wouldn’t be talking about this if he knew he was around. Still, she decided to play with it and see if she could get some information out of him. “Is this what the Grand Cleric has told you?”

“We have talked about it, a bit,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get her out of Kirkwall, in case something does happen, but she refuses to leave.”

“And that’s why you don’t want the mages rebelling? Because you’re concerned about her safety?” Hawke bit into another strawberry.

“I know it probably doesn’t seem like a big threat to you,” Sebastian said. “But apostates are dangerous, Hawke. It may not be what you want to hear, as you are an apostate yourself… but you must at least admit that it’s the truth. If I might offer a suggestion— you should stop hanging around other apostates. They will only hurt you. That mage Anders that you… spend time with.”

Hawke stiffened.

Sebastian continued. “You should be careful around him. I fear he may be the most dangerous of them all. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants. He would even betray you. If I were you, I would turn him in—”

He couldn’t finish his sentence, because Hawke was suddenly very, _very_ close to him, and there was a knife at his throat. No one else could see, because she had the handle hidden cleverly beneath her gauntlet, but Sebastian knew it was there, and that was the important part. “If you ever threaten him again, I will kill you,” Hawke said matter-of-factly. Then, as soon as she’d made her threat, she backed off and pocketed the knife and went to sample some cheese. No one around them seemed to have noticed the scuffle, and Sebastian’s face paled and he disappeared into the crowd.

A few moments later Anders showed back up. He had a dish with various pastries on it. “Miss me?” He smiled at her.

Hawke smiled back at him and reached out and took his arm in hers. “Always,” she said.

  


They were both in high spirits when they arrived home a little while later. Hawke was loathe to ruin it all by bringing up her run in with Sebastian, but knew it had to be done. “So,” she said, as she and Anders changed into their house robes. “I saw Sebastian when we were getting food.”

“Ugh.” Anders tugged a sleeve down his arm. “Not for very long, I hope.”

“Long enough for me to figure out what he wants,” said Hawke. She sat herself down on the bed, and Anders sat down beside her. “He wants me to turn you in. And all my ‘apostate friends’.”

Anders snorted. “Knowing what I know about you, I’m going to assume you… told him no. In your own rather personal manner.”

Hawke leaned over and kissed Anders’ nose. “You know me very well,” she said. “He’s concerned about the mage rebellion, although I don’t think he knows anything about it really. He’s afraid for the Grand Cleric.”

“As he probably should be,” Anders said. He leaned back against the headboard. “If she is going to side with the templars in this— and she is— then she is just as complicit as Meredith, if not moreso. The Templar Order is an arm of the Chantry, and Elthina is the power of the Chantry in Kirkwall. If she will not make a stand, then…” Anders shrugged. “I don’t know what it will all come to. I’m about at my wits’ end.”

Hawke scooted over so she could cuddle him, and he welcomed it, wrapping an arm around her. “I’m with you,” she said. “All the way.”

“I know, love,” said Anders.

Hawke hoped that he truly did.


	33. All The Storms In The Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things continue to heat up in this chapter as Isabela gets a boat and then a group of people get very confused and promptly make a very bad decision. It involves Anders. It does... not go well for them once Hawke finds out.

The little spirit flitted around Hawke as she walked the pathways of the Fade. It was the same one that had talked to her immediately after the Arishok fight, and she had since seen it in dreams, on occasion, but always from a distance. This time, however, its ghostlike form almost seemed to be poking at her, and she stopped. “What is it?” she asked. “Do you want something?”

“I must talk to you,” said the spirit. It didn’t stop drifting about anxiously.

“What about?” Hawke asked.

“Justice,” the spirit said, “Is getting impatient.”

“That’s understandable,” said Hawke. “I am too.”

“You must help him,” said the spirit. “But he does not want help. He feels he can do things alone.”

That was somewhat alarming. Hadn’t Hawke already told him she supported him? Hadn’t she told him, time and time again, that she wanted to help? Was he planning something? What was it?

The spirit continued to drift around nervously. “This is very important to him,” it said. “I think… I think perhaps he is afraid of hurting you.”

“Not possible,” said Hawke, and she meant it. “Nothing he could say or do could ever hurt me.”

“He doesn’t believe that. He worries for you.” The spirit spun around in place a few times, as though it was working itself into a frenzy. “You will help him?”

“Yes,” said Hawke firmly. And then the Fade melted away and it was dark and she was in her bed. Anders was lying with his back to her, fast asleep and snoring lightly. Hawke reached out and pulled him close. He stirred a bit, but didn’t wake, and she buried her face into his back. “I’m not losing you,” she murmured into him. “And you’re not losing me.”

 

Anders was in a good mood the next morning. And that was increasingly rare.

It had been a few months since the dance, and a lot had happened in the interim. Much of it had to do with her friends. Fenris had killed his old master with Hawke’s help, and was now able to plan for a future for the first time. Merrill had given up on her mirror after a disastrous run-in with a demon, but Hawke told her to keep learning and try to apply her knowledge to helping the elves in the alienage and now Merrill was determined to do just that. One by one, it seemed, her friends— once all outcasts like she was— were finally sorting out their place in the world.

Hawke even got to learn a bit about her own family. Bizarre circumstance sent her back into the Deep Roads where she learned things about her father that she never knew. It all culminated in a fierce battle with an ancient darkspawn named Corypheus. That particular fight rivaled her fight with the Arishok for toughest thing she’d ever done— and she had Varric, Anders, and Carver with her this time. But eventually he died, and Carver slammed his sword into the creature’s skull multiple times to ensure it, and Hawke was able to go back home again. Anders hadn’t had the best time in the Deep Roads, and Hawke pampered the poor man for the next several days upon arriving back at their estate.

But the problem with going home was having to deal with the problems that continued to plague Kirkwall, of which the omnipresent threat of the templars was the largest. The stress was getting to Anders, who had decided to scrap the majority of manifesto— again— and rewrite it for the third time. Hawke did the best she could to support and encourage him, and he told her time and time again how grateful he was. But it taxed him. She could see the effort he was expending day in and day out. She saw the way Justice appeared in flashes as he wrote, more and more as the days went on. And as much as Hawke loved him when he was Justice— and she truly, truly did— it was straining him, and Hawke was worried it would get to be too much.

So when she saw that he was in a good mood, Hawke opted not to bring up anything that the spirit had told her in her latest dream. She could always talk to him about it later, and anyway, she trusted him.

He was all smiles and crinkled eyes that morning, playing with the dog and making jokes with Sandal. “I think I had a breakthrough with my manifesto,” he said to Hawke. “No one is going to ignore it this time.”

Hawke wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. “Good,” she said. “I believe in you.”

“You are the only one who does,” Anders smiled, his forehead pressed against hers. “And you don’t know how much I appreciate that.”

They kissed again, and then Anders went right back to writing.

Hawke decided to head to the Hanged Man. She didn’t want to constantly float around a busy Anders like the spirit had floated around her in her dream.

_He is afraid of hurting you. He worries for you._

Well. Hawke would just have to keep telling him otherwise.

 

Hawke found Isabela in her usual spot. Even after the incident with the Arishok the two remained fast friends, and they visited often. “Hawke!” Isabela waved her over.

Hawke came and sat down next to her. “My favorite pirate,” she said with a grin. “You are looking especially gorgeous today. Did you do something to your hair?”

“Oh, stop,” said Isabela. “You know it’s not okay to make me keep wishing you were still single.”

“I have that effect on people,” said Hawke.

“You do, and it’s not fair. Anyway. I’m glad you’re here. You know that guy I used to work for? Castillon? The one who wants me dead? Well. Guess who’s in town? Velasco. That’s Castillon’s right hand man. And as it turns out, I’ve come up with a little plan to use that knowledge to take care of him once and for all.”

“This’ll be good,” said Hawke.

“As a matter of fact, yes it will,” said Isabela. “So here’s the plan. You take me to Velasco. He’s got a room he frequents at the Blooming Rose because, you know. Men. So you take me to him. Pretend you’re getting back at me for the whole book thing or something, I don’t know. He’ll take me to Castillon, and you follow him. Then we can deal with him together.”

“It sounds a little complicated,” said Hawke. “Wouldn’t it be easier to, I don’t know. Beat this Velasco guy into talking? I’m good at that.”

“That’s not as fun,” said Isabela. “You know what _is_ fun? You putting me in chains or rope or something and beating me as part of an act.”

“You have put way too much thought into this,” Hawke smirked.

“Okay, but do you disagree with me?” Isabela asked. “I didn’t think so. Besides, I’d love to see the look on Velasco’s face later when he realizes that he’s been double-crossed. He’s a scumbag and deserves it.”

Hawke couldn’t help but smile. She truly did love spending time with Isabela. “Alright. Let’s do it. Did you want to grab anyone else?”

“Oh, fuck no. I just didn’t want to do this alone. But with you? Maker’s cock, we don’t _need_ anyone else.” Isabela stood and pushed the chair in. “This’ll be quick. In and out. And before you say it, yes, that is what she said.”

 

Hawke had a great deal of fun putting on a show for Velasco. She dragged Isabela into the room, called her an eclectic assortment of names, and then shoved her toward him. The man laughed— creepily— and that brought Hawke very close to ruining the game and just killing him outright. But then he wouldn’t take them to Castillon, so she managed to hold back.

She hid in the crowd outside the room, then, as Velasco took Isabela out of the building. She continued to follow behind, at a distance, as he took her through Hightown, through Lowtown, and eventually to the docks. From there, she hid behind a corner as she watched him force her into a building. She looked the building over and found a back entrance, which she opted to enter through. That led her up to a balcony that overlooked the rest of the place, where she saw Isabela— roughed up but safe— as well as Velasco and a few of his men. Velasco barked something to one of his lackeys, who left, and then he turned to face Isabela. “Now, my pretty thing,” he said, “We just have to wait.”

Hawke wondered how long they would be waiting. It would be a good idea, she thought, to dispatch of Velasco and his men now rather than waiting for more people to show up. She took a pebble on the ground and tossed it so it landed on the other side of the room with a clunk. That had the desired effect of making Velasco and his men look over at it— and making Isabela look up at her. Hawke nodded to her.

Isabela turned to look at the others. “Funny story about that, boys,” she said. “…which is that I don’t have all day.”

And Hawke leaped from the balcony and summoned a lightning storm as she landed, disorienting the men enough to let Isabela shove a dagger in Velasco’s throat. The others were very quickly dispatched after that. Isabela turned to Hawke and grinned. “Did you see the look on his face? That was totally worth it.”

“Remind me again why I don’t hang out with you more,” Hawke chuckled.

“Well, I mean, Anders is cute,” said Isabela as she dug around in Velasco’s pocket. “So I can’t really blame you for wanting to spend all your time with him. Oooh, what have we here…” she pulled a key out from his coat. “Let’s go see if we can find what this opens.”

They rummaged around the building for a bit before Isabela discovered that the key opened a side door. Inside that room was a chest, and inside the chest was a pile of documents and contracts. “Oh my,” said Isabela as she flipped through them. “These look incriminating.”

“What is it?” Hawke walked up behind her.

“Castillon is trying to expand his slaving operation in the Free Marches,” said Isabela. “You know, where it’s illegal?”

“He’s a slaver?” Hawke asked.

“Yes. Didn’t I tell you that? I swear I told you that at one point. Anyway. This grants me a considerable amount of leverage with him. You know what’s fun? Blackmail.”

“Blackmail?” Hawke was confused. “I thought we were going to kill him.”

“This is a better plan,” said Isabela.

“How is it a better plan?” Hawke pressed. “He’s a fucking slaver, and you’re going to barter with him for, what?”

“Something,” said Isabela. She turned and took a step towards Hawke and looked her in the eyes. “Something important. Trust me.”

They were interrupted by noises outside the room, and Hawke and Isabela nodded to each other. There would be time to continue the discussion later. For now, they had some intruders to deal with.

They each hid in the shadows of the side room and waited as the newcomers entered the building. She heard surprised murmurs from them as they looked around at the carnage, and then a man with a heavy Antivan accent said “What is this?”

Isabela peeked out the open door from her hiding spot, and Hawke thought that maybe she’d see some sense and they could kill them all—

—but instead she walked nonchalantly out into the open. “Castillon! What a pleasant surprise.”

Hawke gritted her teeth and exposed herself as well. At least maybe with her there they wouldn’t want to try anything funny.

“Isabela!” Castillon turned to walk toward her. “I should have guessed you would be behind this.”

Isabela held up the documents she was carrying. “Slavery? In the Free Marches? Tsk tsk. It sounds like you’ve been bad.”

Castillon looked over at Hawke— presumably to size them up as a threat together— and then looked back at Isabela. “And you have been looking through my things, I see.”

“Just a little,” said Isabela cloyingly. “But you know, I never turn down a good deal. Oh, my friend Hawke is a mage, by the way. She took on three of Velasco’s men at once and came out without a scratch. So I’d think carefully about what you want to do.”

Castillon paused to think about this for just a moment before he crossing his arms. “Very well. Let’s see how well you deal.”

“I want your ship,” said Isabela. “And I want your promise that I’ll never have to see you again. In return, you get these documents and my lips sealed.”

Inwardly, Hawke rolled her eyes. Of course she wanted a fucking ship. Of course she was willing to let a slaver go for that.

But she said nothing as Castillon lifted his chin. “Deal. I’ll tell my crew to have it ready for you within the hour.”

Isabela nodded and handed the documents over and the two of them shook hands. Castillon turned and yelled something to his men, and they all cleared out.

“Well,” said Isabela, turning to Hawke. “That was easy.” She noticed Hawke’s glare, then, and added “…what?”

“You seriously let a fucking slaver go free for a fucking ship?” Hawke asked.

“Yes,” said Isabela. “I needed it.”

“Is a ship really that fucking important?” Hawke riposted. “And besides, couldn’t we have, I don’t know. Killed him, and then taken his ship from him?”

“His crew would’ve put up a damn tough fight,” said Isabela. “And yes, it really is ‘that fucking important’, if you and Anders want a safe ride out of here once this whole templar business is done with.”

That response gave Hawke pause. “What?” she asked.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Isabela smirked. “You didn’t think your old friend Isabela had a shred of altruism inside her. Well guess what, you’re not the only asshole carrying around a secret soft heart. There is a war coming between mages and templars and everyone with a fucking brain knows it. And you and your cute boyfriend are going to be all tangled up in it, and do you know who can get you safe passage out of Kirkwall? Me. But only with a boat.”

Hawke said nothing as she tried to process this, and Isabela kept talking. “Do you really think I didn’t want to kill him? Of course I want to kill him. And we will. Later. You and I.” Isabela smiled at her. “Once this is all said and done.”

Hawke snorted in disbelief, but then the snort turned into a grin. “You’re an ass,” she said. “But a good one.”

“I learned from the best,” said Isabela.

 

When Hawke arrived home a little while later, Anders was pacing. “What’s wrong?” Hawke asked him immediately.

“A letter arrived,” he said. “From the First Enchanter.”

“Did you open it?” Hawke was already on her way to the desk.

“No,” said Anders. “I wanted to wait for you. But I worry— it can’t be good.”

Hawke took the letter and opened it. “Champion Hawke,” she read aloud as Anders continued to pace behind her. “I appreciate the work you are doing for mages everywhere. You have my support, and I hope I have yours as well. There is a situation in the Circle I was hoping you could assist me with. Please meet me at the Gallows as soon as possible. Meredith has forbidden me from traveling further than the courtyard, so I appreciate your discretion. Sincerely, First Enchanter Orsino.”

“She is going to slaughter every last mage in the Gallows if we don’t stop her soon,” said Anders. “And what will the rest of Thedas do when they see her example? Will they follow suit?”

“We’re going to stop her,” Hawke vowed. She set the letter down and turned and wrapped her arms around Anders; he was trembling. She held him tight. “We have to talk to Orsino first and see what he needs. Are you okay with going to talk to him? Or would you rather stay here?”

“What?” Anders was disoriented, but then Hawke’s words caught up to him. “No— no, I’ll go. I have to go.”

“Alright,” said Hawke, and she kissed his cheek gently. He didn’t respond to her touch, but Hawke just needed him to know that she was there. “Get dressed then, love. We’ll go right now.”

 

Anders seemed to be in marginally better spirits again once it became clear that they were going to actually do something. It didn’t help with the nervous energy, though, and he was antsy as they picked up Varric and Aveline— just in case Meredith decided to try something, Hawke figured— and then headed to the Gallows.

“Do you think there might be an upper limit on what people are willing to read? In a manifesto, I mean.” Anders had plucked a loose feather from his shoulderpiece and he was playing with it distractedly as he walked. I worry it might be too long. But then, how will I include everything I need to include? Perhaps I should publish it in multiple volumes. But then that wouldn’t be a manifesto anymore, would it? It would be a book. I don’t know.”

“Relax, Blondie,” said Varric. “You’re making me nervous just listening to you. What happened to the jokes we used to share? Can’t we go back to that?”

“Now is past time for joking,” said Anders. He continued to brush his thumb, over and over, along the plumes of the feather he held.

“You are no fun anymore,” said Varric. “Can’t you tell Justice to go away? Let Anders come out and play?”

“Stop,” said Anders.

“Varric, shut up.” Hawke broke in. She reached out and took Anders’ hand in hers— his empty one, because he she didn’t want to take away any of the comfort that holding the feather was giving him, no matter how minute. “It’s alright, love. I’ll help you as much as you need.”

Anders said nothing, but he squeezed her hand tight.

Orsino was waiting for them when they arrived at the Gallows. “Champion,” he said, nodding at them. “Thank you for coming. I… must confess I am in a bit of a difficult position. See, Meredith is not entirely wrong.”

Anders, still clutching Hawke’s hand, snorted. “Inform the town criers! A miracle has occurred.”

“Some of my mages are using dangerous means to oppose her,” Orsino continued. “And I cannot seek the templars’ aid without making every mage a target.”

“What do you mean?” Hawke asked. “What are they doing?”

“Numerous mages have been leaving the Circle at night,” said Orsino. “Sometimes for days at a time. I’ll admit I’m not sure how they’re doing it. It must be with the help of sympathetic templars.”

“So?” Anders spat. “Mages have figured out how to be free of this wretched place and you want us to bring them back?”

Orsino looked at him directly. “No. I want you to find out what they’re doing. I have heard rumors and whispers of a meeting happening tonight in Hightown. I would go myself, but if I leave without permission, Meredith would call it proof of my involvement. Just… slip in quietly and see what you can find out. Don’t get involved unless you have to. As much as I hate to say it, the mages here know that you have done some work for Meredith. They may panic upon seeing you.”

Hawke let out a ragged breath. She hated being reminded of that bit. Best to deal with her self-hatred the way she usually did: with bad humor. “Alright. I’ll do my best not to draw attention to myself. Too bad for my plans of dancing naked under the moonlight.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Anders said with a smile beside her. He squeezed her hand, and she knew then that he was doing his best to deflect the darkness of the situation for her, and she felt better.

“Just… see what they’re up to and let me know,” said Orsino. “I… pray they are not up to anything sinister, or Meredith will have what she needs to justify the Right of Annulment.”

And suddenly Hawke no longer felt better.

She nodded at Orsino, though, and they left the room, but as soon as they had, Anders turned to her. “We cannot— Hawke, we cannot let this happen,” he said.

“I know,” said Hawke firmly. “We won’t.”

He was quiet until they were out of the Gallows and on their way back to Hightown, at which point he spoke up again. “When did he say that meeting he wants us to investigate is taking place? Tonight?”

“Yes. After dark, I would imagine,” Hawke replied.

“Is it… alright if I don’t join you?” Anders asked.

That was odd, because Hawke had assumed this was something Anders would be interested in. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“We are being threatened by the Right of Annulment,” said Anders. “That’s what wrong.” His voice was harsh as he said the words, but he remembered afterward who he was talking to, and he took both of Hawke’s hands in hers. “Love. I hate to leave you even for a moment. But I need to talk to my associates about this. Things could go downhill very quickly.”

“I understand,” said Hawke, even if she didn’t like it. She didn’t like leaving Anders for any length of time, even a few hours. How was she supposed to protect him when he was away? “You have to go tonight?”

“Yes,” said Anders. “Well. I should go now, and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I should be back before morning, though.”

“Should be?” Hawke stopped and turned and slipped her arms around his waist. “At least tell me where you’re going to be, so I can go looking for you if I have to.”

Anders pressed his lips to Hawke’s ear before replying, and she knew why: Varric and Aveline were still within earshot, and they may have been friends, but secrecy was everything. “Do you know that seedy elf in Darktown who sells potions? It’s right by his stand. You can ask him, if you need directions.” He pulled away again and looked at her. “I’m sorry to worry you like this. It’s important.”

“I know, love,” said Hawke.

Anders smiled. “Your patience with me is truly incredible.” He turned and headed toward Darktown, and it seemed to Hawke that bit of her soul was being tugged away with him.

 

Hawke felt incomplete as she waited the few remaining hours in the day for the sun to set. She couldn’t shake what the spirit had told her the previous night from her mind. _He does not want help. He feels he can do things alone._

But… this was different, wasn’t it? This wasn’t about him wanting to be alone. This was about him needing to do something while Hawke needed to do something else. This was just being intelligent about the whole thing.

…wasn’t it?

More concerning to her was the very idea that if something happened, she wouldn’t be there. In a way, it was ridiculous, because he had been running the Mage Underground without her for years. And yet now, with things increasingly uncertain and with Anders’ anxiety reaching a high point, Hawke thought it was a bigger risk than usual.

 _It will be okay_ , she told herself, over and over. _It’s always been okay before._

Night fell, and Hawke, Varric, and Aveline went to Hightown. It felt odd to go on a mission like this without Anders at her side, but she tried to shake her worries away and focus on what she was supposed to do.

It didn’t take them long to find the meeting, which was being held out in the open. In fact, she basically stumbled upon everyone gathered there simply because there was no real way to sneak up on it. She barely had time to acknowledge that some sort of clandestine meeting between mages and templars was happening when someone yelled out “The Champion! She’s here!” and someone else cried “We know you’re working for Meredith!” and then Hawke and her friends were set upon on all sides.

The scuffle was frantic and desperate and they had no healer. Hawke ended up having to pull a couple of hack healing jobs herself. She had never done so before in the heat of battle, and would probably have been proud of her efforts had she not been desperately trying to stay alive.

Eventually, everyone had scattered or was dead except for one mage, whom Hawke grabbed and pinned against the wall, her claws around his throat. “I’m not _fucking_ working for Meredith,” she growled at him. “And I don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re doing with templars, but you’re going to tell me so I can prevent more _needless fucking deaths._ ”

“Please,” the mage wheezed. “I’m sorry. I just… they told me—”

Hawke cut him off. “Are you with the Mage Underground?”

“No, serah. We’re a different group. We don’t work with them.”

Hawke didn’t think they did, but she wanted to be sure. “Then what are you planning? Answer me!”

“We want to make a truce with the templars. Honest. That’s all we’re trying to do. If… if you want to talk to people who know what’s going on… go to Gardibali's Warehouse at the Docks. They know more than I do. I’m just an initiate. I swear to the Maker. Now, please… let me go.”

Hawke was still furious that people had died because she was apparently still seen as Meredith’s lackey, but that wasn’t the mage’s fault. She released him. “Get out of here,” she said, and then she turned without a word to head for the Docks.

 

Hawke went in expecting a fight.

She really wish she hadn’t been, because she still utterly hated the fact that mages were dying simply because they were afraid of her, but she was expecting one anyway and in the end she was right about it. She was attacked by mages and templars alike before she could explain her position, and ultimately they all died except for one young templar who was standing terrified in a corner. Hawke recognized him from years back— she’d helped him in some way or another, long, long ago— and he was nearly quaking in his boots as Hawke marched up to him. “I told them not to do it!” he cried. “I swear!”

“I want someone to tell me what the fuck is going on,” said Hawke, “And it looks like that someone is you.”

“Look, this isn’t as bad as it seems,” said the templar. “But I… I told them they shouldn’t have done it. I told them it was a bad idea. It just happened a couple of hours ago, so maybe—”

“What are you talking about?” Hawke cut him off. She suddenly didn’t like where the discussion was going.

“They said someone was spying. So we needed leverage. Someone they cared about. As a hostage. But Maker, if I’d known it was going to be _you…_ I would never have let them take one of yours—”

Hawke had him shoved up against the wall within half a second. Her face was in his, and she was growling like a dog. “If you don’t _fucking_ tell me what the _fuck_ you did I am going to _kill you._ ”

“The healer,” the templar gasped out.

Hawke’s blood ran cold, and she actually let go of the man in shock.

He kept talking, though. “They found him in Darktown. They’ve got him up at the ruins on the Wounded Coast. Thrask says that we have to—”

“Thrask? I’m going to kill him.” Hawke spun around on her heel.

“Hawke! Wait!” The templar called after her.

Hawke wasn’t listening as she _ran_ out of the city, Varric and Aveline desperate to keep up with her. A thousand things were running through her mind. First thoughts of distress: She had let him down. She hadn’t been careful enough. She had failed.

And then…

…and then came the anger.

She was going to _destroy_ everyone who had touched him.

They would _dare_ —

They would dare go after something pure, something better than anything else in the entire damn city, something Good, something that was _hers_ , something that no one else had any right to touch because the world needed him, didn’t they see that _the world fucking needed him how dare they fucking touch him._

“Hawke!” That was Aveline, probably yelling at her to slow down as she dashed out of city limits. Hawke didn’t respond. She was going to rip her way through anyone who got in her way with her damn claws. She was going to make every last person involved wish they had never been born. Her fury was going to be the last thing they saw.

She stormed her way through the Wounded Coast and even though she hadn’t stopped running, she wasn’t tired. Varric and Aveline were some ways behind her and she didn’t care. All she cared about was painting herself in the blood of everyone who had taken Anders. The sky was dark and dotted with stars, and she followed the torchlight in the distance until she reached the ruins.

Anders was unconscious on the ground, and he was surrounded by both mages and templars.

Not that Hawke could distinguish between the two as she charged into the the lot of them, knocked the closest person (a templar, apparently) to the ground, and began summoning the biggest storm she could possibly summon. She wasn’t thinking as she did it. She wanted everyone involved dead.

There was a lot of shouting around her as templars wrestled her to the ground, subduing her magic before she could cast it. She struggled in their grip, a hissing wildcat trying to break free, and then she saw Ser Thrask. “Hawke!” he exclaimed. “Please let us explain. We can come to a peaceable solution.”

“Like _fuck_ we can while you’ve got _him_ on the ground,” Hawke snapped. “How dare you. How fucking—”

“Why are you helping Meredith?” Ser Thrask asked, ignoring her words. “Surely you can see that she is only going to destroy Kirkwall.”

“Do you really think I would support that _evil fucking snake?_ ” Hawke shot back. “She threatened me and forced me to do her work for her once. Fucking once! Do you all really fucking think I would willingly…” she trailed off because she saw Anders on the ground again, which meant that nothing else mattered until he was safe and she started to struggle again, desperately trying to tear herself away from every last fucking person who was holding her back.

“Maker,” said Ser Thrask, and he rubbed his head. “I knew this was a bad idea. I’m sorry I doubted you, Hawke. Just— calm down, and I’ll fix this.”

A mage approached Ser Thrask. “She’s lying,” she said. “Can’t you see that? We need to kill her.”

“We’re not going to kill an innocent to achieve our ends,” Thrask told her.

“But you would fucking kidnap one,” Hawke muttered.

“I don’t care about him,” said the mage. “I’m here for the Champion.” She walked over to Hawke, who was still propped rather uncomfortably on the ground, pinned there by multiple templars. Hawke narrowed her eyes and looked at the woman. She was vaguely familiar, although Hawke couldn’t place where she had seen her before. “You don’t remember me, do you,” said the mage. “But you might remember killing a blood mage in a cave, years ago. Our friend Thrask was even there, waiting outside.”

The memory was foggy, but Hawke managed to dredge it up. Tricking Thrask and the templars… helping some apostate mages escape, her very first taste of doing so… killing a blood mage, yes… and Anders was there… Hawke remembered wanting so desperately to hold his hand…

…Anders.

He was still unconscious on the ground and Hawke was still helpless and she started to bark again. “I don’t give a flying fuck who you are or what you’re talking about. I will kill you if you hurt him.”

The woman laughed with a shrill voice. “Always insisting you’re going to kill people. You killed the best man I ever knew. I’ve thought about it since then, and do you know what? He was right. There is no way for a mage to live by the Chantry’s laws.”

“And you do realize that the man you’ve fucking kidnapped agrees with you and is your best bet for mage freedom!” Hawke nearly shrieked the words out. How could these people not see that yes! She agreed! Everyone was nitpicking over the same damn thing, and it was ridiculous! She might have tried to do so, at another time, but at the moment Anders was all she cared about. She managed to rip herself from the grasp of the templars holding her down— they had faltered, a bit, upon seeing another dangerous mage— and lunged at the woman. But the woman was prepared and stunned Hawke with a spell and then produced a knife.

Blood magic.

Then the templars were all on the woman, desperately trying to restrain her, but she’d summoned a rage demon who made directly for Hawke. Hawke didn’t give a shit. Jagged bolts of frost flew from her fingers, slowing it down, and that was followed by torrents upon torrents of sheer, angry arcane energy. She knew she would best the demon, and she did, but it was a long fight made all the longer by the knowledge that she still wasn’t helping Anders. He was lying there, in the middle of the fray, and as soon as the demon went down she ignored the rest of the melee and dove for him. He was alive, even if he wasn’t responding to anything. Carefully, Hawke pulled him to the outskirts of the camp. By that time the fight was winding down. The woman who had threatened her had died, and so had Ser Thrask and several others. Hawke didn’t care. She had Anders in her arms and she was going to bring him back and that was what mattered.

She opened her mind to the Fade and drew out the thin needle of magic that she used for healing work. With that in her mind’s eye, she attempted to explore Anders’ consciousness. But her touch was being blocked by something. Some sort of magical barrier had been set up to keep everyone out.

She was pondering this when she saw someone approach. She looked up and saw a young mage looking down at her. “Maker’s breath,” he said. “I’m… I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to be a part of this…”

“ _Fix him_ ,” Hawke snarled. She had both her arms wrapped tightly around Anders, never to let go.

“Yes, of course,” said the mage quickly. “She… used blood magic to hold him. I’ll have to wake him up that way. I’m sorry.”

He could have said he’d have to start the Sixth Blight in order to wake him and Hawke wouldn’t have cared. She just held him close as the mage made a quick cut his his palm and worked a magic spell, and then Anders began to stir in her arms. “Mmff… Mar… Marian?” he mumbled.

Hawke clutched him close. “I’m here, sweetie,” she said. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

Anders put a hand to his head. “Just my pride. Maker.”

Hawke was thoroughly relieved. He was okay. Whatever magical spell they’d had him under was dissipating with no ill effects. She kissed his cheek. “Did you need a minute?”

“That would probably be best.” Anders seemed to be enjoying being in Hawke’s arms, and she was more than happy to accommodate him there. “You know,” he said, “I always liked the idea of you rescuing me. But I’ll admit my idea was a bit different.”

“Oh?”

“I had it all planned. I’d be in the Gallows, templars all around, holding the brand for the Rite of Tranquility. Then you’d burst in and break my chains. Then it would be all about the best way to show my gratitude.”

Hawke laughed. “How many times have you thought about this?”

“Well. Sometimes. You know.”

Aveline and Varric ran up to them, having finally caught up. They both looked around agape at the pile of dead bodies. “What the— Maker’s _breath_ , Hawke,” said Varric. “Did you do all this?”

Hawke snorted from where she was kneeling down. “They had a big ass fight among themselves. I only did some of it.”

“Always getting all the best luck like that, huh,” said Varric.

Then Aveline and Varric both turned, and Hawke followed their gaze to see Knight-Captain Cullen arrive with several templars at his side. Aveline readied her sword, and Varric hefted his crossbow, and Hawke clutched Anders to her chest with one hand and reached for her staff with the other. But Cullen held up a hand and began talking. “Champion? I didn’t know you were involved with all of this.”

“I wasn’t,” said Hawke with gritted teeth.

“So you were here to stop these traitors, and not join them?” Cullen folded his arms. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Hawke _hated_ him and she was about to give him a piece of her mind when the mage who had helped wake Anders stepped forward. “Please, ser. The Champion is a fine individual. She was doing the best she could to resolve this.”

Cullen looked down at Hawke, as if to see if she agreed, but she said nothing. Finally, he grunted and turned to one of his templars. “Put the mage to questioning.”

“Be kind to him,” Hawke said, suddenly. Cullen looked down at her, and she continued, “He helped make things right in the end.”

Cullen snorted. “You mean he was one of them, save for a convenient last minute change of heart?"

Hawke decided to make herself more clear. "Let me rephrase. If you or Meredith hurt him, and I find out about it, I will kill you."

Cullen let out a ragged breath. "Very well. I’ll encourage Meredith to go easy on him.”

Hawke didn’t have much faith in that statement, and she hated that even one mage was going to end up back in Meredith’s clutches, but unfortunately Cullen had too many templars with him for her to test. The young mage did, though, turn to Hawke and thank her. “You may— want to see to Ser Thrask’s things,” he added in a quiet voice, so no one else could hear. “He had something he wanted to show you.”

Then Cullen and the others were taking him and the few other survivors away, and Hawke righted herself and reached down to help Anders up as well. While Hawke hadn’t stopped inwardly cursing herself for letting Anders out of her sight in such tense times to begin with, he at least seemed to be doing alright. Thank fuck for that, at least.

Hawke waited until Cullen and the others were long gone, and then she knelt down beside the prone body of Ser Thrask. Carefully she undid the straps on his heavy armor and pulled the pieces off— managing the best respect she could, not because she cared so much as she thought Varric and especially Aveline probably would. Finally she found what she was looking for: a pocket in Thrask’s trousers with some papers in them. She pulled them out and expected them. The first two weren’t anything interesting— templar duty assignments and various other logistics, nothing more— but the third sent an icy chill down her spine.

It was a notice from Meredith.

She was attempting to call the Right of Annulment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If my outline continues to hold then there are about seven chapters left in this fic. I'm hoping to have it all finished up and complete by the end of the year. Thank you for reading, as always :D


	34. Your Halo's The Color of Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders has a plan. Hawke wants to help. Anders... well. Eventually the poor boy will learn that Hawke is there for him no matter what. But at least she gets to yell at Elthina a lot. She likes doing that.

Anders wasn’t sleeping, and Hawke didn’t blame him. She couldn’t sleep either.

From what they could gather, the paper they’d found on Thrask was Meredith’s first notification to her templars that the Right of Annulment was being considered and that she was preparing for the process. It was a warning for them to be ready, because she would be asking the Grand Cleric for her authorization “very soon”.

Anders had been pacing back and forth almost since they’d arrived home. His feathers and hair were all in disarray and he had one hand up on the golden chain that held his coat closed, nervously fidgeting with it. His thoughts fell out of his mouth in one long stream-of-conciousness: of course Elthina would grant her request, and even if she didn’t Meredith would very likely go ahead and override it anyway; he didn’t know what he was supposed to do to stop it; he didn’t know what _could_ be done to stop it; this could be happening any day; and they were out of time. He repeated all of these points over and over, and Hawke didn’t know if he was talking to her so much as he was talking to himself, trying to sort out his own thoughts. Hawke did her best to help him as best as she could, but ultimately she felt useless because she didn’t know the answers to Anders’ questions any more than he did.

Finally Anders sat down at the desk with a book and started pouring over it, his attention entirely focused on it, and Hawke didn’t want to bother him so she laid down in bed. She couldn’t keep her eyes open, and she fell asleep shortly after.

She woke up a few hours later to an empty bed and the candle on the desk still burning. Anders had gathered two more books and was reading them ferociously. Hawke stood up and walked over to him. “Anders,” she said softly. “Love. I know it’s bad, but— you need to rest so we can think of a plan tomorrow.”

“No time,” said Anders. “No time.”

He didn’t say anything else, and Hawke didn’t want to press him, so she went back to bed.

When she next woke, it was morning. The bed was still empty. Hawke sat up straight; Anders was asleep at the desk, a pile of books and scrolls scattered across it. Hawke slipped out of bed and walked over to him carefully so as not to wake him. A simple glance at the books showed that they were reference books— largely Tevinter in origin— that dealt with obscure spellwork and potions. A last minute bid to come up with some sort of unusual plan, she figured.

She leaned down and kissed his head, gently. Then she grabbed something from her dresser and pocketed it before tiptoeing out of the room to make breakfast.

She’d just finished eating when she heard the bedroom door click. She looked over to see Anders making his way downstairs. He hadn’t changed and was still in his coat from the night before, and there were bags under his eyes. She guessed he had probably only slept for a few hours. He looked over at her, and there was something in his expression that she hadn’t seen before. They locked eyes for a second and then he looked away. He was fidgeting again.

“Anders?” Hawke asked. She walked over to him, and she was going to take him in her arms and hold him but he backed away. He still wasn’t looking at her.

And that was very, very concerning.

“M… Marian,” said Anders. “I… I need to talk to you.”

“Alright,” said Hawke, and she was relieved to hear that bit. “What about?”

“Not… not here,” said Anders. He still wasn’t looking at her. “I was thinking… at my clinic, maybe?”

That was an odd request. Why not here? “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No, I just. I would feel more comfortable if we talked there. I’m… used to talking about these kinds of things there,” he said. He ran his fingers across the chain on his coat again. Then, finally, he looked up with Hawke and tried to force a smile, but he failed miserably at it.

Hawke was intensely concerned, but she trusted him. “Alright,” she said. “We’ll go to your clinic. But can I give you something first?”

Anders looked at her, confused, as Hawke pulled a key on a chain out of her pocket. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you for a while, but kept forgetting. There’s a back entrance to our estate. It’ll lead you to our family’s old wine cellars which open up right next to your clinic. That way, we have an easy escape if we ever need one.” She smiled and handed the key to Anders.

He took it, gently, and looked at it so oddly that for a moment Hawke wondered if he even really grasped what he was saying. But finally he looked back up at her and said, “Thank you. I don’t deserve you.” But those words, which he had said so, so many times before, were tinged with a deep sadness this time and Hawke’s heart was breaking at whatever pain he was feeling.

“Come on, love,” she said, and she took his hand. “I’ll show you.”

She led him to the back entrance, which was hidden behind a wardrobe, and together they descended into a tunnel which took them down into the old cellar where Hawke and Carver had recovered their father’s will long, long ago. From there it was just a quick turn to the clinic. Anders had hardly been there , recently, and most of the place was covered in a thin coat of dust. But everything was still there, just in case, and Hawke loved him fiercely just as she loved his clinic and everything that it stood for. It was here that she first met Anders. And the more she thought back on it, the more she thought that it was here that she’d first fallen in love with him, for she was increasingly convinced that she had loved him all along.

And, now, it was here that Anders turned and looked at her. That indecipherable expression was in his eyes again. Hawke couldn’t think much on it, because he had already begun talking. “I’m going to be trying something,” he said. “And I thought you’d want to be part of it.”

“Of course,” said Hawke. He must have come up with a plan. She was ready for it.

“We’ve both been wrong,” said Anders. “What I did with Justice was unnatural. It should never have happened.”

That threw Hawke for a total loop. Partially because it had nothing to do with the most important thing at hand at the moment— which is that Meredith was planning the Right of Annulment— and partially because it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “What you did with Justice was amazing and not wrong at all,” she said. “We have helped so many people, and we are still helping so many people. And I love you, and I love that you are Justice. I love that that’s who you are, that your name means Justice to people everywhere… and to me. There was nothing wrong about it.”

Anders looked very confused and blinked at her a few times. Why? Surely he had been expecting that answer? “Anyway,” he pushed on doggedly, although he was stumbling over his words as he did so. “I’ve found a way to undo it. Safely. And I can go back to being Anders, and Justice can go back to being Justice. It’s… better that way. I know it is.”

“And… you’re the first person to figure this out?” Hawke was skeptical.

“Well, not exactly,” said Anders. “It’s based on a Tevinter recipe. It’s a potion. And… and I need some help gathering the ingredients. So I wanted to ask you.”

And that’s when Hawke pieced everything together. The Tevinter books on his desk, the odd way he was acting, his refusal to look at Hawke.

_You must help him. But he does not want help. He feels he can do things alone._

He wanted ingredients. But not for what he was telling Hawke he wanted them for. He was planing something, and Hawke didn’t know what, but she did know that it was important. He wouldn’t be asking for her help if it wasn’t.

She wanted to help. Why wasn’t he letting her help? What could need such secrecy?

“Anders,” she said softly. He looked up at her, and his eyes were filled with pain. She stepped forward and pulled him to her, and she was half-expecting him to resist but no, he let her take him in her arms and hold him. She pressed her lips up to his ear. “Tell me what you’re doing,” she said softly.

Anders pushed his face into Hawke’s shoulder, as though to bury himself there. For several long moments they were quiet there together. “I can’t,” he whispered finally, and when he tilted his head to look up at her she saw tears in his eyes.

“Alright,” said Hawke, and she stroked his hair and comforted him. “It’s alright, shh. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I know it’s important. I’ll help you with whatever you need.”

Anders let out a sigh of relief and he pushed himself further into Hawke’s embrace. “I knew you’d help me,” he said quietly. “Even if I don’t deserve it at all.”

Hawke pulled out of the embrace and looked at him squarely. He was a mess. He hadn’t slept, and his eyes were red-rimmed with stress and tears. He looked terribly, terribly sad. He was carrying the weight of his people on his shoulders. Of course she was going to do whatever she could to ease his burdens. “So,” she said. “What sorts of ingredients do you need?”

“I need two, in specific,” said Anders. “Sela petrae and drakestone.”

Hawke hadn’t heard of either. “Tell me about them,” she said. “Are they rare?”

“They are uncommon, I suppose,” said Anders. “Shops here don’t stock them. But we can find them, with a bit of looking. Drakestone is a substance that the Tevinters used to mine for their apothecaries. There should be deposits of it in the Bone Pit. Sela petrae is a crystal that forms from concentrated manure and urine.”

“That’s… lovely,” Hawke deadpanned.

“Isn’t it,” Anders said in an equally droll voice. “But I suppose the good news is that we’re already in a sewer. It shouldn’t actually be that difficult to find.”

“That’s all you need?” asked Hawke.

“Yes,” said Anders. He looked up at Hawke with a concerned expression, as though terrified that she might suddenly decide to change her mind.

He needn’t have worried. Hawke was in this for good. “Alright,” she said.

“Really?” Anders asked.

“Yes,” Hawke said. “Did you want to go now?”

Anders appeared to be endlessly flummoxed at the idea that Hawke was not balking at this. “Yes,” he said finally. “I’d like to go now, if you would.”

“Lead the way,” said Hawke.

So they delved into the deepest bowels of the sewer. Hawke kept wondering, idly, if Anders would talk any more of whatever plan he had. But he didn’t, and as they combed through piles of sewage and filth, Hawke was left to wonder things by herself. She had never heard of either of the ingredients they were after. She knew from her time in Lothering that manure could be turned into a potent crop fertilizer. But that wouldn’t require such secrecy, would it? If Anders was trying, for example, to provide better food for apostate mages on the run or help them learn to fend for themselves, he would have told Hawke, wouldn’t he?

Well. It didn’t matter. As curious as she was, she trusted him completely.

Getting the next ingredient on the list turned out to be somewhat more involved. Hawke had initially suggested that they get help from some of their friends for it, since Hawke knew the place seemed to attract dragons like dogs to mabari crunch biscuits. But Anders nixed that idea almost immediately. “I’d rather no one else find out about this,” he said. “If it does end up being dangerous, we can come up with a new plan.”

And, again, Hawke didn’t question him.

It turned out that the Bone Pit was safe that day. There was no sign of dragons anywhere, and Hawke and Anders were able to wander about in the old tunnels and mining pits to dig up what they were looking for. Drakestone was a yellowish mineral with a sharp, pungent smell that was almost familiar but which Hawke couldn’t quite place. “Between this and the manure, we’re really having a field day, huh?” Hawke attempted to lighten the mood a bit.

“Huh?” Anders was distracted.

Hawke smiled at him. “Nothing, love. How much of this did you need?”

“Enough to fill that sack we’ve got,” said Anders. “I think there’s more over here.”

It took them about an hour to collect enough of the mineral to fill up the sack. After they were done, they headed back to Anders’ clinic, where he carefully examined and sorted the new ingredients while Hawke watched. He still didn’t seem to be interested in spilling more details on his plan, and although Hawke was increasingly curious she never once pressed him. If he changed his mind and wanted to explain things, he would. Until then, it was no use asking. It would just stress both of them.

Finally, Anders was happy with his collection. “Thank you, again,” he said, leaning back.

“Did you need help with anything else?” asked Hawke.

“I might. But not yet.” Anders smiled at her, but it was thin and forced.

She waited, then, for him to get up so they could head home together, but he didn’t move. Finally, he looked over at her. “Would you… mind if I was alone here, for a while? There is some work I need to do, and I’ll have to concentrate.” He tried to smile again. “I’m sorry. You know I would never ask for you to leave me alone if it wasn’t important.”

Hawke’s heart sank despite it all. It wasn’t that she blamed him. She understood completely. But she still wished she could be included in whatever his plan was. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll be at home, if you need me for anything at all.”

“Of course,” said Anders, although his attention was already elsewhere.

Hawke got up and left.

  


Anders wasn’t home until well after the sun had set. Hawke had actually been wrestling with herself over whether she wanted to go out looking for him or not when he stumbled in, looking disheveled and confused. He tried to smile and nod at Hawke, but he failed at it completely and just looked dejected and sad. Hawke immediately rushed over to him and took him in her arms. “It’s alright, I’ve got you,” she said, which she decided was probably the best thing she could say. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

Anders shook his head.

Hawke was skeptical. If he’d been in his clinic all day… “Have you eaten at all?” she asked.

“I’m… not sure,” Anders said, and Hawke could tell from his confusion that that was a genuine answer. He wasn’t trying to hide anything from Hawke, he honestly couldn’t remember.

“Sweetie,” Hawke said almost under her breath. She pulled him to the kitchen and made him toast. She thought something easily digestible would probably be his best bet. He picked at it rather reluctantly, and Hawke wondered if he truly had no appetite at all and was only eating to please Hawke.

After spending several minutes eating just half of his meager meal, Anders stood and pushed his chair in. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just really tired. I think I might turn in.”

“Of course,” said Hawke. “Are you sure you didn’t need a bath or anything, first?”

“What? Oh. Oh, no, I’m fine. But thank you.” Anders wandered upstairs and Hawke followed him, and once they were in their bedroom she began to change into her nightclothes. She was expecting Anders to do the same, but he just collapsed into bed, feathers and all, and was asleep within minutes.

Hawke curled up in bed next to him. He was still hers, and she was still his, and she was determined to keep it that way.

  


Anders was gone the next morning.

That wasn’t particularly surprising to Hawke, because she had fallen asleep assuming that would be the case. She could only hope that he had eaten something before he left, at least, although somehow she sort of doubted it.

She made herself a quick breakfast while wondering all the while if he’d gone to his clinic and, if he had, if she should go find him or leave him be. He… _would_ tell her if he needed help from her, right? He’d said that he would, but…

Hawke was startled out of her thoughts by a sudden quick rapping at the door. By the time she got there, whomever had knocked was gone, but two letters had been shoved through the slot. Hawke leaned over to pick them up. Neither letter came with a return address, but the first was sealed with the wax stamp of a ram’s head, and the second bore the wax seal of a bird in flight with curved wings and a chevron-shaped tail. A swallow, or a swift perhaps. Hawke knew that these letters were from the Mage Underground and assumed that the one with the bird was directed towards her, and that thrilled her. She rushed upstairs to her room and sat at the desk, where she cast a quick spell to light the crystal and set the paper from her letter down in front of it. Words came into view instantly. “Champion,” the letter read. “My name is Alain. I am the mage you helped at the Wounded Coast the other day. I am glad to report that I got off lightly. I think Ser Cullen might just be afraid of you. I have since gotten in touch with the Mage Underground. We are all preparing for a revolution to occur very soon. People will wait for a few days in the hope of outside help, if possible, but things are getting very bad. We cannot wait long before we must try regardless. Please see that the other note reaches your associate. It is urgent. And do make preparations for an impending battle.”

The note sent an electric tickle up Hawke’s spine. Finally, things were starting to happen! And not only that, but now she had an excuse to see Anders.

She dressed into her armor, quickly, and then stuffed the two letters in a pocket and disappeared out the back entrance.

  


The clinic was more of a mess than usual when Hawke arrived.

Various tools and potions and books and scrolls were strewn across the desk and several of them had fallen onto the floor. Anders, who was kneeling on the floor reading something, looked up at Hawke with a sort of detached bewilderment— he clearly hadn’t been expecting to see her whatsoever. “Marian?”

“Anders. I’ve got something important.” Hawke produced the letter for him, feeling thoroughly satisfied that she was being included in plans again. They might not have been Anders’ specific plans, but they were plans nonetheless.

The confusion on Anders’ face gave way to intense focus as he stood and took the letter from her. He went to his own desk, where a crystal identical to the one at home was sitting. He cast a spell and skimmed the letter quickly without sitting down.

“What’s it say?” Hawke asked.

“Things are coming to a head,” said Anders. “Good.”

“Good?”

Anders nodded and turned to face Hawke as the glow from the crystal dissipated. “We are almost ready. Are you sure you are in this with me? It’s… not too late for you to turn around. Have the most normal life you possibly can.”

“Sweetheart… I’m not expecting this to end with anything less than overthrowing the templars,” said Hawke.

Anders smiled, and for the first time in days, it was genuine. But then it faded away. “Then I have one more thing to ask of you, my love.”

“Anything,” said Hawke, and she meant it.

“I need—” Anders paused, weighing his words. “I need you to go to the Chantry with me so you can distract the Grand Cleric while I… do something else.”

“Alright,” said Hawke.

“You… agree? Just like that?” Anders asked.

“I already told you,” said Hawke. “I don’t know what you’re doing. But I trust you. It’s important. And… you know, if you want to tell me, you can, and I will absolutely support you in it. But if you’d rather not, then that’s your choice too. Okay?”

Anders smiled again, but this was a sad smile and he shook his head. “You are the one shining light in my life. And the only reason I’ve gotten as far as I have. Please, never blame yourself for what will happen.”

That was a truly odd thing to say, and Hawke might have questioned it, but Anders was already talking again. “If you’re ready, can we go right now? Actually— you go, and I’ll meet you there. Does that work?”

“Of course,” said Hawke, and her mind was spinning with thoughts about what he might possibly be doing. But if revolution was truly as close as everyone said it was, then she supposed she’d find out soon enough, and she headed back through the tunnel.

  


Hawke was still trying to figure out what his plan was as she walked through the streets of Hightown on her way to the Chantry. Anders was setting something up there, that much was clear enough. But what? Hawke wondered if the ingredients he’d gathered could be worked into some sort of poison or gas that could knock everyone out and ensure they weren’t around for any impending breakouts at the Gallows. But then, wouldn’t he want to focus on the templar barracks if that’s what he was doing? Maybe he’d do that part next. First he’d rig the Chantry and then he’d rig the barracks.

…could he even get into the barracks? Getting into the Chantry was one thing, since it was open to all. But getting into the barracks without being watched on all sides was another.

But if that wasn’t his plan, then what was it?

Hawke stood near the chanter’s board and waited, and thought some more. Perhaps the Chantry wasn’t his final destination. Perhaps it was just a stop on the way to wherever they were going. But no, he’d told her specifically to distract the Grand Cleric. So whatever he was doing, it was going to be here.

He arrived a few moments later. His coat was bulging out a bit— he was holding something under it. Hawke didn’t ask what, since she figured she probably wouldn’t get an answer, and that was fine. At least he was letting her help with this. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Whenever you are,” said Hawke. “About how long did you want me to distract her for?”

“I don’t know,” Anders admitted. “I’ll try to be quick. Just keep her talking. Ask her about mages. Give her one final chance to explain her fake neutrality.” Anger flashed across his face, briefly, but then it was gone, and he turned to walk up the Chantry steps before Hawke had a chance to reply.

He left her almost as soon as they were both inside, ducking into a side room and shutting the door. Hawke let him go, and then headed to the center of the room where Grand Cleric Elthina was currently giving someone a blessing. Hawke waited a few minutes until they were done, and then approached. Elthina looked at her unblinkingly. “Champion,” she said. “Was there something you need?”

“Not especially,” Hawke said nonchalantly. _Time, time._ “I… actually kind of wanted to talk to you about something, if you had a moment.”

“Of course,” said Elthina.

“So, hypothetically,” said Hawke, “If there were a group of people being brutally subjugated by another… would it not be the will of the Maker for someone to step in and correct any injustices?”

Elthina folded her arms. “You speak of the mages. It’s no secret that you count apostates among your friends. You have done much to fan the flames of rebellion here.”

“So… suddenly this is about my friends now,” Hawke said. “And not about, oh, I don’t know. Moral decency?”

“This is not a problem that can be solved with a philosophical high ground, child,” said Elthina. “We must give Meredith and Orsino time to work out their differences. No good can come from showing favor to one side. Both sides make good points. And both have flaws.”

Oh, _this_ was rich. Hawke had forgotten completely that she was originally there for Anders’ benefit and now just wanted to argue— and rightfully so, she thought, because the Grand Cleric was spewing nothing but bullshit. “Is that right?” Hawke asked, eyebrows raised. “’Both sides have good points’? The side that feels they have the right to go in and slaughter a bunch of innocent mages in their beds has a good point? The side that wants to keep people locked in cells the size of closets, day in and day out, for the crime of being born different has a good point?”

“Champion—”

Hawke wasn’t done. “The side that feels it has the right to cut the fucking soul out of someone and replace it with a fucking sunburst brand has a point? The side that will chain a terrified boy, not even of age yet, to a whipping post just because he wanted to see his fucking parents again? _That_ side has good points? Fucking spare me.” 

“It is easy to say such things when you are not in this position,” said Elthina, and her voice was calm. “For a thousand years, the Chantry has had to find the balance between mages and templars. That has not changed here.”

“Has it occurred to you whatsoever that maybe the reason you can’t find a balance is because there isn’t one?” Hawke shot back. “There is nothing fair here. There is no damn balance here. There is only a group of people being systematically oppressed and abused by another because they might possibly be dangerous someday.” 

“It is not as simple as you believe it to be,” said Elthina. “I feel for the mages, I really do. I would not wish to be locked in the Gallows. But magic allows abuses beyond the scope of mortals.”

“Oh!” said Hawke. “Is that the issue! Well, you know, never mind the fact that the Dalish and the Avvar and the Rivaini have no fucking problems with their mages. Never mind the fact that, Maker fucking forbid, some other fucking culture might have a better idea of how to handle things than your precious fucking Chantry.”

“Are you here to berate me, Champion, or are you here to talk?” Elthina asked. “Because if you are here for the former, I fear you are wasting your time.”

“Right,” said Hawke. “I forgot that you’ve already fucking decided on your position. I forgot how much you love power. Why else would you refuse to leave Kirkwall even when you would be safer in Val Royeux? Why else would you string the mages along like this for years when you know just as well as I do that in the end you’ll side with the templars anyway? I know what you’re playing at. And I’m not afraid to say it. And I’m not afraid of you.”

“It is not me you need to worry about being afraid of,” said Elthina. “It is your own fierce heart.”

“I happen to have someone who loves me for that same heart,” said Hawke. “But I appreciate your concern.”

“She’s right,” said Anders, who was walking up to them. “I do love her for that.” He turned and smiled at Hawke. “And there you are, love. I’d been looking everywhere for you.”

“Right here, sweetheart.” Hawke pressed herself into him, and he wrapped his arms around her, and for just a few moments everything was blissful and normal again. Here was someone who understood. Here was someone who she would never have to have a fucking debate with about whether or not people should be treated like people.

Elthina eyed them both warily. “You have a troubled soul, child,” she said to Anders finally. “I hope you have found a balm for it here.”

“Grand Cleric.” Anders nodded at her coldly, with Hawke still in his arms, and then she turned around in his embrace to give Elthina a final icy glare herself, and the two of them left the Chantry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to misteradequate who has a degree in this sort of shit and helped me with details on how real life revolutions work while I was writing this chapter.


	35. In The Eye of a Hurricane There Is Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the last moments before revolution, Anders and Hawke try to have a moment for themselves and then meet up with an old friend.

When they arrived home, Anders was all nerves and excitement. Hawke couldn’t tell if it was a happy excited or a stress excited, or if there was even much of a difference when it came down to it. Anders headed upstairs, and Hawke followed, assuming they were going to their room. But then Anders paused at the balcony and turned towards Hawke. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were flushed. “I cannot tell you how good it feels for a spirit to fulfill its function,” he said. “The waiting is over. I am finally seeking justice. And he— I— _we_ are exultant. There is no ecstasy human kind can feel to match.”

“I am happy for you,” said Hawke, and she meant it. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he must have been feeling right now. He deserved to feel good about himself for once.

“I would share it with the world if I could, love,” Anders replied, and he reached for her and she let him pull her into a warm embrace as they kissed. Then they pulled away and he looked at her closely. “Are you ready for this? We’re going to have to fight. It’s going to be messy.”

“Absolutely,” Hawke replied. “Are you ready?”

“Oh yes,” said Anders. “The clock is ticking down. It will be midnight soon.” There was that hint of rapture in his voice, again, but then it faded and he looked back at Hawke. “I’ll admit— I’m worried for you. I know I shouldn’t be. You can handle yourself. You have proven that time and time again. But I can’t help but fear for the worst anyway. This isn’t a fight for sane men.”

“Nor is it a fight for sane women,” said Hawke, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck.

Anders smiled at her, then, with such fondness that Hawke thought she might melt away. “No,” he said. “I suppose it’s not.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Hawke. “I’ll be fine. It will all be fine. It might be rough at first, but it’ll work out. We’ll bring down the Gallows and then we’ll bring down the other Circles across Thedas together. You and me.”

“It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?” Anders smiled, but then his expression grew serious. “I love you. And I fear I could lose you. I’m not worried for myself. And even if something happens, well. One life would be a small price for freedom for so many people.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Hawke murmured. Her arms were still around his neck, and his hands were on her waist. “I won’t let anyone, or anything, get to you.”

Anders looked away, and Hawke thought it was odd that he was choosing this point in the conversation to do so. Was this about what he had done in the Chantry, earlier? She wanted to ask him what he had done. Not because she didn’t trust him, but because she so desperately wanted to help. She wanted to be prepared for what might come. Would he even tell her, if she did ask? She decided to venture it. “Can I… ask for any details on what you did? Just so I’m better prepared for whatever it is.”

Anders looked at her directly, and his eyes were suddenly gleaming again and a smile was playing at the corners of his lips. “You are Kirkwall’s Champion, love,” he said. “And as Champion, you have done so, so much to aid us. I cannot begin to thank you enough for the help you have provided. It would be best if you continued to remain in that role, rather than aligning yourself too closely with me. It will be better for our cause in the long run.”

Hawke had expected that answer, and she was disappointed to hear it, but she also knew that Anders had a point. And if she could make better use of herself as a figurehead, then, well, she’d have to live with that.

Anders kissed her again before she could say anything. “I love you,” he said. “I know I just said that, but… I need you to know it. I could not have done any of this without you at my side. Having a partner these last few years… that… was not anything I’d dared dream of when I first started thinking of rebellion. But it has meant so much to me.” Anders put his hand on Hawke’s cheek.

Hawke lifted a hand and set it on his. How very, very much she loved him. Nothing would ever change that. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. “Most people aren’t willing to try to change the world.”

Anders smiled at her warmly. His hand was still on her cheek. “Do you know when I knew I loved you?” he asked.

“When?” Hawke asked.

“Do you remember… when we went to help those mages in the cave? With Ser Thrask and the other templars outside? We were in there together, and one of the mages mentioned something… terrible. Templars were forcing themselves on her, she said.” Anders’ eyebrows were pursed as he recounted this story. “And I… I was so used to having to stand up for injustices like that alone that I just… assumed I would have to do so again. I felt Justice inside me, angry, so angry, and inside I could feel myself shifting towards him. I was alone, and I knew it, and I’d deal with it the way I always did. But then… then you reached out and you took my hand. Well. You took my wrist, but it was close enough.” He smiled. “And you told her that you weren’t taking her back to the Circle. And I looked over at you, and I saw so much determination and resilience in your eyes. And there we were, together, you and I. Both of us outcasts, helping another mage. And I… I knew then, that if I wanted, I would never have to be alone again.”

“And did you want that?” Hawke’s voice was almost a whisper as she set her own hand on Anders’ cheek.

“I did. But I didn’t say anything for years. As I’m sure you remember.” Anders pulled away from her touch, suddenly, and looked down at the floor. “There is something I need to tell you.”

“Anything,” said Hawke. She wondered if he was finally going to tell her about his plan. Whatever it was, she was ready to give him her full support.

“I’ve been thinking about Justice lately,” said Anders. “We are one and the same, now. His thoughts are mine, and mine are his— just different sides of the same coin. But sometimes I remember life before, when we were in Amaranthine together— and that reminds me of my time with the Wardens. I’ve poured so much of myself into the Mage Underground and the rebellion here. Sometimes the Wardens seem insignificant. But all it takes is one bad dream or memory to bring it all back. The darkspawn taint. The call of the Archdemon. It’s all inside me, as much a part of me as Justice is.” Anders’ eyes were pained, but he forced himself to look at Hawke. “And there’s something you should know about that. There is no cure to the taint. It progressively worsens over the years. If unchecked, the Warden becomes a ghoul, no better than a darkspawn themselves. Grey Wardens are expected to avoid that by going on something called The Calling.”

“That’s when you go into the Deep Roads and don’t come back out, isn’t it?” Hawke asked.

Anders looked at her oddly. “You know about that?”

“There are a lot of rumors about Wardens.” Hawke smiled at him and reached up to touch his face again. It was odd how she missed him when she didn’t have him under her fingers. “I imagine you didn’t hear as many rumors when you were in the Circle, but when you move around a lot as a kid you hear some things.”

“You… know that this might happen to me then?” Anders asked.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” said Hawke, and she lowered her hand so she could take his hand in hers. “I think the part of you that is Justice won’t let that happen. You know how you say Justice doesn’t let you get drunk anymore? Do you know why I think that is? Because alcohol is technically a poison, love. Justice recognizes that and protects you from it. The same way he protected you from a templar blade through the heart. And the same way your nightmares have been fewer and fewer since we first moved in together. Haven’t they?”

“I… suppose you’re right,” said Anders. He seemed bewildered; Hawke wondered if he hadn’t thought of any of this before.

“I think,” Hawke continued, “That Justice is protecting you from the taint getting any worse. And do you know what else?”

“What?” said Anders.

“If that doesn’t actually turn out to be true, well. Then I’ll just have to follow you into those fucking Deep Roads and clear everything out for you.” Hawke smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “You will never be alone.”

Anders smiled back. “I’d tell you I’d never let you do that, but I know you wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Nope,” said Hawke. “I wouldn’t.”

Anders sighed happily and pulled Hawke into his arms. “You are wonderful. But there’s a lot of ugliness I’m going to bring into your life. If you knew what was good for you, you’d find someone else.”

“Not a chance,” Hawke murmured into him. She looked up at him. “Do you know when I first loved you?”

“When?” Anders said into her hair.

Hawke grinned. “When you told me about Ser Pounce-a-Lot.”

Anders snorted. “Wasn’t that the first day we met?”

“I believe it was the first minute we met,” Hawke said. “There you were, ready to defend every last refugee in Darktown, but then you had to stop and tell me about your cat. It was love at first sight.”

Anders chuckled and they kissed each other softly, sharing a moment, but then Anders pulled away and looked out the window.

“What is it?” Hawke asked.

“I thought I saw something…” said Anders. He was walking down the stairs moments later, Hawke following behind, and just as they reached the front door a letter was pushed through the slot. Anders leaned down to pick it up. There were two wax stamps on it; one was the ram’s head and the other was Hawke’s bird. The two of them looked at each other and then, knowing that this was important, wordlessly went upstairs to the desk.

The letter was short and succinct. Briefly it told them to go to one specific location in Lowtown, because the Mage Underground had made contact with someone who could help. The letter did not supply any additional details, but was signed with a coded symbol that Anders recognized. “So it’s not a trap, then?” Hawke asked.

“I don’t see how it can be,” Anders said. “But in times like this? It’s best to be safe. We’ll go together.”

Hawke nodded in agreement, and they each got their staves and then headed out.

  


There seemed to be something in the air throughout Kirkwall, an almost palpable nervous energy running through the air like an electric current. Templars walked about, a lot of them, patrolling the city in a way that only Aveline’s city guard had ever done before. Hawke and Anders eyed them warily. The templars knew exactly who they were, and they had no doubt that Meredith had warned them to keep an eye on them. They hid for a while in the Hanged Man until they passed, not wanting them to see where they were headed, and then warily continued on their way.

The meeting spot was one that Anders knew of, because it had been used as a meeting place for the Underground in the past. Anders insisted on walking in first, although Hawke was directly behind him. She wasn’t, however, expecting Anders to suddenly stop in shock as he stared at what was in front of him, and Hawke certainly wasn’t expecting… “Carver?”

Carver turned and smiled thinly. “Sister. I should’ve known you’d be causing trouble again.”

Hawke looked him up and down. He was doing just as well as he had been when she’d last seen him during their recent jaunt in the Deep Roads. He was in the Grey Wardens’ standard issue blue-and-silver armor and he looked healthy. He was alone, and Hawke found that unusual. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Funny story, that,” said Carver. “It seems that whatever secret mage rebellion group you’ve got going on has contacts with the Wardens.” He glanced over at Anders, briefly, and then looked back at Hawke. “And it seems that they managed to convince the higher-ups that Knight-Commander Meredith’s behavior is worth looking into. After that business with Corypheus, they’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“So you were the lucky one to get to join us?” Hawke grinned.

“I may have volunteered.” Carver shrugged. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun. So. What’s been happening? I saw all those templars walking around.”

“Yeah,” Hawke said. “Rebellion is going to happen soon.”

“How soon?”

Anders spoke up. “ _Very_ soon.”

“Maker.” Carver rubbed his forehead with a gloved hand. “I suppose I can’t say I’m surprised that you’d be wrapped up in all this, sister. Well, I’m here to support you. Whatever you need. I know I’m just the pain in the ass brother, but I can swing a sword, and that’s what counts.”

“Hawkes stick together?” Hawke asked.

“Always,” said Carver. He looked over at Anders. “And judging by that all that red you’re wearing, I’d say you count as a Hawke.”

“You can blame your sister for that,” said Anders.

Hawke couldn’t help but feel immensely relieved. Was it silly of her to be so happy to see her brother again? Maybe. But on the other hand, he was the only thing she had left that tied her to who she was before. A reminder that she had changed— and he had too, and it was for the better. “Carver,” she said. “I’m… glad you’re here.”

Carver smirked. “Do you know what some of the Wardens call me?”

“Butthead?” Hawke asked.

“Close,” said Carver. “They call me Hawke. I guess that makes us even.”

“Finally caught up to your big sister after all,” said Hawke. “Took you long enough.”

“Oh, and before I forget. Some of your mage friends wanted me to give this to you.” He produced a letter, which he handed to Hawke.

She took it; it was stamped with her and Anders’ symbols like the earlier one had been. She pocketed it to read later. “Wanna head home?” she asked. “I don’t think you’ve actually seen the estate yet.”

“Lead the way,” said Carver.

  


After Hawke had shown Carver the guest room and he was settling in, she and Anders holed up in their own room. Anders was getting antsy again. He’d been largely calm ever since the incident at the Chantry, presumably because he’d just satisfied the Justice side of him. But now he was pacing, or rocking a bit on his heels restlessly when he actually stood still. Hawke set the letter down on the desk and cast her spell that allowed its words to become visible. Like the last letter, this one was very short. The handwriting and signature, too, were the same as the prior one’s. This was a relief. The last letter had provided genuine help. Perhaps this one would, as well.

“What does it say?” Anders asked. He was jittery and almost seemed to be vibrating in place as he stood behind Hawke.

“There’s a meeting happening tonight in Hightown,” said Hawke. “Someone wants to meet with us.”

“Does it say who?”

Hawke shook her head. “It just tells us where to meet.”

Anders began to pace again. “Everything is getting into motion,” he said. “This is all going to happen very soon. Tonight? Tomorrow? I need to— I need to get my things.”

“What?” Hawke asked. “To go somewhere?”

“No, but… I’m… I think it would be good to sort my things out. In case something happens to me.” Anders turned and look away. “I thought… maybe Varric would like my pillow—”

Hawke cut him off. “Don’t talk like that, love. Nothing is going to happen to you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Anders wasn’t listening. “I can’t really think of anything to leave for the others, though. I don’t know if any of them liked me much.”

“Sweetheart…” Hawke was concerned and she stood up and walked over to him. She wrapped her arms around him and he was as stiff as a board but he let her do it. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she said softly. “I can help you. I know that’s hard to believe right now, but we can get through whatever it is together. Is this about the rebellion? Are you afraid Meredith or the templars might hurt you?”

“You can protect me from them,” Anders said quietly. “I’m not afraid of them.”

“Then tell me what you are afraid of,” said Hawke. She stroked Anders’ hair soothingly.

“I… would rather not,” said Anders, and he pressed his nose into Hawke’s shoulder. “Just. Hold me.”

Hawke held him.

  


That night, just after sundown, she and Anders went to the appointed meeting place in Hightown. Both were on their guard in the event that the Mage Underground’s communication system had somehow been compromised and the letter was leading them into a trap. They didn’t need to worry, however. The meeting was genuine, and consisted of several dozen people including not only regulars from the Underground, but several local nobles as well. “Champion,” one nobleman told her. “We’ve seen you stand up to Meredith’s tyranny in the past. She will run Kirkwall into the ground. Your rebellion has our full support. And, of course, more support in the future, should things go your way.”

They all bowed to her, then, and presented her and Anders with resources that they had used considerable amounts of money to procure. Included were weapons, armor, clothing, food, traveling gear, and lists of allies outside Kirkwall. Anders was grateful, but not in much of a state to respond, so he let other members of the Underground take care of the logistics. Hawke did her best to help. She didn’t know what, exactly, was bothering Anders, but she thought that after the inevitable battle he would probably be in better shape. She thanked everyone involved profusely, and once everything was all said and done she and Anders turned to leave.

And that is when Hawke thought she something in the shadows, out of the corner of her eye, but when she whirled on it, staff at the ready, it was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the stuff Anders says at the beginning of this chapter can actually be found in game!! I'd never seen it until I saw a [YouTube video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LrdGPyWXp4s) very recently because I guess you need less than 100 friendship to trigger this conversation, for some reason... and, well, I'm always at max friendship with Anders by the end of Act One... so... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> The next couple of chapters will probably be kind of short and rapid-fire, but then the Big Battle will probably be pretty lengthy. Thank you for reading!


	36. If You Can't See The Forest For The Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke has a run-in with a good spirit friend and she wakes to find Anders... gone? Where has he gone? The Chantry...?

When they arrived home after the meeting in Hightown, Anders was a wreck.

He had, of course, seen Hawke whirl on the shadowy person she thought she’d seen out of the corner of her eye, and he was immediately ready at her side. But then, when a threat failed to materialize, he became distressed. The two of them spent many long minutes combing through the area, desperate to find something— anything. But whatever it was— if there was anything at all— had long since fled, and Anders was not happy about it. “I know it was a templar,” he said. They were at home, now, and he was distraught. “Or a spy. They know what we’re planning. Meredith’s going to find out. She’s going to invoke the Right—”

“What should we do?” Hawke asked. She wasn’t quite as worked up as Anders was, but she certainly recognized that a potential spy was a serious threat.

“I don’t know,” said Anders. “We might… we might have to do this thing. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Hawke asked.

“Or. Tomorrow. I don’t know.” Anders sat down at the edge of the bed and sighed. “I don’t want to make the wrong move at the wrong time. The fate of hundreds of mages depend on me.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Hawke asked as she sat down beside him.

Anders looked at her oddly. “No,” he said at length. “I think I will just… write. To try to clear my thoughts. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” said Hawke.

Anders smiled at her, and Hawke, wanting to give Anders his space, laid down in bed and fell asleep.

  


She woke about an hour later. The room was dark, the candle out, but Anders wasn’t with her. The bedroom door was ajar, though, and Hawke could hear someone just outside.

Quietly she got out of bed and approached the door. Anders was there, right outside on the balcony that overlooked the rest of the mansion. He was walking about aimlessly, mumbling something to himself. Hawke approached him. “Anders?” she asked him.

His breathing was shallow from stress and he didn’t look back at Hawke, although he did stop his wandering. “It’s bad,” he said softly. “Everything is.”

“I know,” said Hawke.

“Marian,” said Anders. His voice was raspy, but calm. “I’m sorry that I can’t be what you deserve. But I am no longer just a man. I am the cause of mages.”

“ _We_ are the cause of mages,” Hawke said firmly.

Anders didn’t reply, so Hawke pressed herself up against him and wrapped her arms around him. “We are the cause of mages. Together. You’re not alone, love.”

Anders let Hawke hold him. She pushed her face into his neck, and she could feel his quickened pulse against her lips. “Come to bed,” she said. “We’ll figure it all out in the morning.”

Anders mumbled something that Hawke couldn’t quite hear, but he let Hawke take him into bed and then she wrapped her arms and legs around him tightly and she fell asleep moments later.

  


Hawke was wandering the pathways of the Fade in her dreams when she saw the spirit that had greeted her so many times before. It drifted around a little ways ahead of her, seemingly unaware of Hawke's presence, but then it noticed her and turned and floated toward her excitedly. "Hawke," it said. "I need to thank you."

"Thank me?" Hawke replied. "What for?"

"You have helped me to find my purpose," the spirit replied. "Much as you have helped Justice with his."

“Your purpose?” said Hawke. Then it dawned on her. Of course. Of course the little spirit had its own purpose, just as Justice had his. "What... are you?" Hawke asked curiously. 

And then the entire Fade seemed to flare and illuminate with resplendent light, and the spirit in front of Hawke transformed before her eyes. Hawke winced and shielded her eyes until the blinding light in front of her faded away, and then she looked up and saw an elegant woman with dark skin, sharp black eyes, and sepia colored hair that spilled to her shoulders in waves. She was, Hawke thought, possibly the most beautiful person she'd ever seen. “I am that last, fading spark of optimism in the eyes of a Circle mage, imprisoned since childhood. I am the nighttime dreams of children who spend the day staring out a barred window, wondering if they’ll ever see their families again. I am what mages cling to at night, when nothing else is keeping them from setting themselves to their own flame. I am Hope.” She had slowly been approaching Hawke this whole time, although Hawke hadn’t noticed, so transfixed was she, and now the spirit held a hand up against her face. Her touch was gentle and soft. “He has gone,” she said.

"Anders?"

"Yes. He has left, and I am not certain where he has left to. Perhaps to the Chantry, or perhaps to the Gallows. Justice must be seen to."

The phrase had a double meaning and Hawke wasn't sure which one the spirit meant. Perhaps both. "I need to find him," said Hawke.

"You do," said the spirit, "For justice is nothing without action." She took another step forward; her face was very close to Hawke's. "Wake," she breathed.

  


Hawke woke up. Anders was gone, and Shadow was whining outside the bedroom door. It was still dark out; morning hadn’t arrived yet. Hawke leaped out of bed and opened the door. Shadow immediately bolted down the stairs and Hawke followed him. He came to a pause in front of the writing desk and whined again. Hawke approached it and looked down.

There on the desk, tucked carefully and deliberately between a couple of papers, was a single black feather.

“ _Shit_ ,” Hawke hissed, and moments later she was dressed in her armor and she had her staff in one hand and was rushing to the front door. Shadow was at her heels, and Hawke leaned down, there, and looked him in the eyes. “Go get them. All of them. Wake up Carver. Take him to the Hanged Man and get Varric. He’ll know what to do from there. Can you do that for me, boy?”

Shadow barked twice. He understood.

And Hawke flung open the door and the she ran into the night.

  


Hawke was on her way to the Chantry— her first guess as to where Anders had gone— when she heard the telltale heavy stomping footsteps of templars from some distance away. She ducked behind a wall and waited until they passed. Then she turned to see where they were going. They were headed to the Gallows. She decided to change course and went off after them.

The templars came to a stop a few alleys away from the Gallows. Hawke didn’t see Anders anywhere.

But she did see Meredith and Orsino. Meredith was surrounded by templars— and more were arriving with every passing moment— while Orsino was alone, and Hawke didn’t think that boded well. Hawke came to a stop some distance away. She didn’t want to get any closer to them before her friends arrived. She could hear the two of them well enough, anyway. “I will have the tower searched, top to bottom,” Meredith exclaimed.

“You cannot do that!” Orsino said. “You have no right!”

“As Knight-Commander, I have every right!” said Meredith. “You are harboring blood mages. Blood mages who, I have recently learned, are plotting against the Templar Order and the Chantry. I intend to root them out before they infect the rest of the city.”

“Blood magic!” Orsino threw his arms up in the air. “Where do you _not_ see blood magic? My people cannot sneeze without you accusing them of corruption.”

Meredith’s eyes narrowed and she took a step closer to him. “Do not trifle with me, mage. My patience is at an end.”

“A wonder that I never saw it begin,” Orsino snapped. Then he looked over and saw Hawke.

Meredith followed his gaze to look at her as well. “This does not involve you, Champion,” she said.

“Does it not?” Orsino asked. “I think the people of Kirkwall deserve to know just what you’ve done, Knight-Commander.”

“What I have done,” said Meredith, and she whirled on Orsino, “Is protect the people of this city time and time again. What I have done is protect you mages from your _curse_ and your own stupidity.”

Hawke’s fingers curled around her staff. “I am done,” she said icily, “With being called a curse.”

“It doesn’t matter what you call it, Champion,” said Meredith. “A disease? A sin? A blight? It’s still the same thing. It is something that the world needs to be protected from, and I will not ever lower my guard.”

Hot rage began to rise in Hawke’s mind. She was going to kill her. She was going to single-handedly destroy her. She was saying awful things, cruel things, _false things_ , and Hawke wasn’t going to let her continue to poison Thedas with her bigotry. “You are the only disease here that the world needs to be protected from,” she growled. Instinctively the back of her mind opened to the Fade as she talked, and she felt demons crouching there, watching.

“I know that you, as a mage yourself, are biased in their favor,” said Meredith. “But you cannot tell me that you have not seen what they can do with your own eyes. Your mother—”

“If you say one more word about her I will fucking kill you,” snapped Hawke.

Orsino spoke up again. “You would cast us all as villains. But it is not so!”

Meredith turned to face him. “I know,” she said. “And it breaks my heart to do it. But we must be vigilant.”

“You heard her, Orsino,” said Hawke, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “It just breaks her heart to kill all those children newly arrived in the Circle. But vigilance, ever such vigilance.”

“And if you cannot give me another way,” said Meredith, turning back to Hawke, “Do not brand me a tyrant.”

Hawke saw something out of the corner of her eye and turned; Varric, Carver, and the others had just arrived. Hawke didn’t have a chance to say anything because the First Enchanter was talking again.

“Grand Cleric Elthina will put a stop to this nonsense,” said Orsino. He turned to leave.

Meredith grabbed him. “You will not bring Her Grace into this!”

And that’s when Hawke saw him.

Anders, walking towards them from the Chantry, his stance firm, his staff grasped tightly in his hand. Hawke ran up to meet him, but he ignored her and kept walking towards the others. “The Grand Cleric cannot help you!” he exclaimed.

Meredith whirled on him. “Explain yourself, mage!”

Anders marched up to her, electricity starting to crackle on his skin and down his staff. “I will not stand by and watch you treat all mages like criminals, while those who would lead us—” he looked over at Orsino, “—bow to their templar jailers.”

“How dare you speak to—” Orsino began.

Anders slammed his staff into the ground. Hawke stood beside him. She didn’t know if he even knew she was there, but she wanted to be there, regardless. “The Circle has failed us, Orsino!” Anders said. “Even you should be able to see that!” His eyes flared lyrium blue, briefly, but then it was gone and in his eyes instead was a profound sadness. He turned to pace, but he was looking down and away, and Hawke knew him well enough to know that he was deeply troubled. “The time has come to act,” he said, and there was a quaver in his voice. “There can be no half-measures.”

“Anders…” Hawke ran to catch up with him. “What’s… what’s going on?”

And, finally, Anders turned to look at her. His warm eyes were so, so sad, but Hawke saw a million things in them, and in that moment a spark of understanding seemed to jump out to Hawke—

_I have done something. Something horrifying. Something possibly beyond your forgiveness. I understand. I’m sorry. I love you. Thank you._

—and Anders looked away from her and looked up at the Chantry. “There can be no turning back.”

Hawke felt it before she saw it. A deep rumbling under her feet.

Then she looked up at the Chantry, looming over the city, right as a bright, violet beam of light shot out of it, reaching towards the sky. The beam grew and intensified before suddenly flaring out in every direction like the brightest, hottest sun, angrily punching holes through the building, knocking heavy chunks of it to the ground. Then, the entire structure seemed to pit into a deep well of gravity somewhere in the beam’s center, but only for a second before the beam spit out the bits of rubble and debris— as though it was a sour, unwanted mouthful of food— into the rest of city.

And then the beam of light faded away and the Chantry was gone, and in its place was a cloud of dust and a dark void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O


	37. Just Burn It All Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time comes to a stop and Hawke reminisces.

There were times when everything seemed to slow down to a stop, and this was one of those times.

Hawke couldn’t remember exactly when or where she first heard about other mages. They had always been a part of the world.

Papa did magic. But, somehow, that didn’t make him a mage. That didn’t make him the scary thing that the other kids always talked about. Papa wasn’t scary. He had magic, but he didn’t do scary things with it. Just helpful things. Like heating up soup. As long as you used your magic for helpful things, that didn’t make you a mage, right?

The other kids would talk about mages, sometimes. The meaner rumors said that they would come after you if you didn’t go to bed on time and suck out all of your blood and use it to summon demons. The kinder rumors said that they were poor souls, cursed by the Maker to live the rest of their lives in solitude as a way of paying the price for the sin that they were born with. It wasn’t _their_ fault they were evil, so these stories went. So they were to be pitied, poor things.

But neither one sounded like Hawke’s pop, so she figured her pop couldn’t be a mage. He just used magic sometimes, to be helpful, and she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about it, but she figured that was mostly so the other kids wouldn’t be too jealous. After all, who else’s pop did magic?

Then she became a mage herself, and things after that were different.

She wasn’t allowed to tell anybody, which at first was just a game, much like she wasn’t allowed to tell anyone about her father. But, oh, how difficult it was to hide it when the other kids still talked about mages. They were evil, or cursed, or wretched, and thoroughly unlovable. Foul and corrupt were they, and there was nothing Hawke could say or do about it without letting her secret out.

So as she got older and older still, she learned to laugh about it. And in order to laugh about something, you have to believe in it, just a little bit. She was foul and corrupt, so said the Chant. She was the boogeyman all the kids were afraid of. She was the laughing stock of countless hurtful jokes, and it didn’t matter how many times her father told her not to believe them. It was still hammered into her, day in and day out.

There was no one around her own age that was like her. Bethany was like her, eventually, but by that point the age difference was still enough that Hawke couldn’t really count her as a peer. All the other mages Hawke’s age were in the Circle, and so Hawke was alone. She opted to avoid making particularly close friends because of that, for how could you bond with someone who was making all the same jokes and telling all the same stories and believing all the same things that everyone else was? How could you strike up a deep friendship with someone who, if they _knew_ , would fear and hate you?

It didn’t help that they moved around so often before finally settling in Lothering. So Hawke stuck by her family. They were safe. They knew that she and Father and Bethany weren’t a threat.

It was in Lothering that Hawke started to notice the boys and girls around her in a more… different way than she had in the past. She liked girls, especially the boyish ones like her who she could wrestle with (in more ways than one), and she liked boys too, particularly if they were soft and gentle and kind and could act as a foil for her roguish ways. The first person she kissed was a farmgirl from down the road. She and Hawke had gotten into spats more than once over stupid things— who could spit a corn kernel the farthest, whose rooster crowed the loudest— and at some point that got physical and at some point soon after it got _physical_ and neither really knew what they were doing but they both knew that they liked it and this went on for a while before Hawke decided it wasn’t in her best tactical interests to be involved with a fierce rival so she broke it off rather unceremoniously.

Not long after that, she began to see a kind boy around her age who was training to be a farrier like his father. He loved animals and was terribly sweet, and that sweetness hid a deep intelligence. She loved talking to him, and talking eventually gave way to _more_ and oh, Hawke liked him a lot. But while he wasn’t faithful, himself, his parents were— constantly reading and quoting from the Chant— and that always made fear gnaw a pit into her stomach. That fear was the knowledge that she was a mage and would have to hide these things from anyone she got close to, _forever_ , because what would they do if they ever found out? And it scared her and she broke that relationship off too.

And then… then there was Lena.

Lena, who managed to be beautiful and handsome all at the same time, who had cropped red hair and freckles and a wicked grin and could talk her way into or out of just about anything. She and Hawke became inseparable almost immediately after they’d first met— as friends, first, but then as something more, one night, as they stumbled giddily into the darkened corner of a barn and tenderly explored each other. That was, Hawke thought, possibly the first time the word _love_ came into her mind. But she couldn’t let that happen, could she? How could you love someone, and how could they love you, when they only knew half-truths, when you were hiding who you really were, when they could never have that deep, deep part of you that defined you?

Another relationship broken off. That one hurt the most.

After that, she only let herself have flings and one-night stands. Never again would she let herself fall victim to her own damned feelings.

  


Sometimes she saw other mages. Not often— they were usually in the Circle. But some mages got around, as nobles’ pets, and oftentimes the look on their faces was sad and Hawke wanted so badly to make some sort of sign to them that she was one of them, that she understood. But that would require outing herself, and that was something she knew she could never do.

So the mages would look at her and there would be fear in their eyes. Hawke would look at the ground.

One time, one of those mages noticed the way she acted. He gestured at Hawke and asked someone nearby if she was “one of us”. And that person laughed and said no, of course she wasn’t.

And Hawke overheard and she simultaneously felt very relieved and intensely disappointed. It was confusing to feel both emotions at the same time, but there it was.

  


She would look in the mirror sometimes and she looked normal. She didn’t look like a mage. Or did she? Was there some way people could tell? Or did she pass as normal? Hawke had heard rumors that some mages had unusual colored eyes— violet, or bright yellow. Hawke looked at hers very closely. They were sky blue. But was it an acceptable shade of sky blue? Would anyone be able to tell? How different did she look? Was she too different? Or perhaps she didn’t look different at all and was worrying over naught?

  


She remembered Lena and chased the thought away angrily. She could never let herself fall in love.

  


…or, at least, she thought she could never let herself fall in love until she met Anders.

Anders, who was a mage, like her.

Anders, who Hawke wasn’t afraid to admit her own status to, partially because with Bethany and Father both gone she didn’t care much about her own safety anymore but also partially because here was someone _like her_.

Anders, who was not only like her, but was proud of it, too.

Was it okay to be proud of a thing that you kept bottled up for so long? That thing that your family tried to tell you— with varying degrees of success— was alright, but that the world told you was a sin, a curse, a disease? 

“Be proud of it,” they said, “But never tell the world.”

How conflicting it was.

But Anders said to be proud of it, and damn the world for telling you that you shouldn’t be. Anders said that it wasn’t you who was wrong. Anders said it was the world that was wrong.

And Hawke didn’t quite see, at first. Oh he was sweet, and endearing, and optimistic, but was he right?

Hawke thought of years scared to tell anyone about herself.

She thought of all the people in her life who she’d refused to get close to.

She thought of how very, very much she hated herself. She pretended she didn’t, but the words _foul and corrupt_ had lodged themselves deep inside her soul, where not even Anders could coax them out. How could he, when he was still struggling with his own sharp, deeply embedded arrowheads of self-loathing?

She thought of Circle mages. Circle mages, dragged from their families as children. Not allowed to grow up. Not allowed to live. Countless, countless numbers of mages through the centuries permanently imprisoned, and for what?

For the crimes of a mere seven Magisters Sidereal, if the Chantry was to believed.

Bullshit. It was all bullshit. Even if those magisters had existed and done exactly as the Chantry said— as Corypheus himself seemed to confirm, although Hawke had her doubts about it all— did that justify nine hundred years of oppression? All for the crime of being born different?

No. No, it didn’t.

  


Kirkwall's Chantry went up in flames and debris and Hawke didn’t give a shit about it. But Anders— Anders, why had he done it, exactly? What was his aim? Why not go for the templar barracks instead? Why not Meredith? Why the Chantry? She didn’t care, particularly, that he’d gone for the Chantry— she just wanted to better understand his aims.

Right. He couldn’t get into the templar barracks. She’d thought of that already. The Chantry wasn’t heavily guarded. The barracks were. That made sense.

And, ultimately, as disgusting as the templars were, were they not victims of the Chantry as well? Forcefed lyrium until their minds were addled? They were terrible people and deserved to die, but they were symptoms of the disease. Anders, the healer, went right for the disease’s bitter heart.

It was night. The Chantry would have been about as close to empty as it would get. There were no visitors there. There was only the Grand Cleric herself, some templars and a few lay sisters. The lay sisters probably didn’t deserve to die, but nor did the dozens of terrified young children herded into cells in the Gallows, ready to be slaughtered like sheep when Meredith called the Right—

—that was it.

That’s what he was doing.

He was forcing a war.

And he was forcing the world to see that Meredith didn’t care about actually defending the city— only about killing mages.

He had destroyed a highly visible and highly symbolic building, by himself. Everyone had seen him do it. Hawke knew that he would not deny he had done it. If the Knight-Commander had an ounce of sense in her body, she would retaliate by taking Anders alone. He was the one person who did it, therefore, he was the one person she could claim justice demanded.

But she wasn’t going to do that, was she? She was going to retaliate by forcing the Right of Annulment. She was going to retaliate against one single mage by going after _every_ single mage. Which not only proved Anders’ point, but also gave all the mages back at the Gallows, awaiting a visible, obvious sign, a chance to fight back. They wouldn’t be caught flatfooted by Meredith and her templars. They would be ready for the revolution that they were all waiting for.

Anders had done a horrific thing, yes. Single handedly destroying a building was terrible. Hawke couldn’t deny that part.

But he had also done a brilliant thing.

And he had done the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The action will resume next chapter!


	38. And Bring the Ashes to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke reacts to the Chantry boom. It's sappy. :') Then things start to pick up a little!

Everything came back into sharp focus. Hawke could smell ash and sulfur and dust. She felt alive in a way she hadn’t in years. This was happening. Revolution was at hand. She was ready to fight.

…no one else was.

They were all staring up at where the Chantry had been with a sort of disbelieving horror, and Hawke didn’t understand why. That wasn’t what was important right now. Couldn’t they see?

Apparently not.

“Maker have mercy,” said Meredith. Hawke thought now would be an excellent time to attack her, but if no one else wanted to, she certainly couldn’t take her and her templars on by herself, so— frustratingly— she’d have to wait.

Anders, beside her, was looking straight ahead, refusing to flinch. “There can be no peace,” he said.

He was right, and Hawke was ready, her staff out, her mind brushing the Fade.

Somewhere, behind her, Sebastian was wailing. Hawke didn’t give a shit. She wasn’t sure why Varric had chosen to round him up with the others anyway.

She was still trying to formulate a plan for their next steps when Orsino turned to face Anders. “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”

“I removed the chance of compromise because there is no compromise,” said Anders calmly.

“You fool,” Orsino continued. “You’ve doomed us all!”

“We were already doomed,” Anders said. “A quick death now, or a slow one later? I’d rather die fighting.”

“The Grand Cleric has been slain by magic, the Chantry destroyed,” said Meredith, and Hawke wanted to say _actually she was slain by drakestone and sela petrae and her own fucking refusal to leave Kirkwall_ but didn’t have a chance. Meredith whirled around on them. “As Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, I hereby invoke the Right of Annulment. Every mage in the Circle is to be executed. Immediately.”

And there it was, just as Hawke had guessed. Of course Meredith wasn’t going to respond to the work of one mage by attacking one mage. No, of course she was going to respond to the work of one mage by killing every last one of them. All it had taken was a few seconds for Anders to be proven completely right. That figured.

“The Circle didn’t even do this!” Orsino was exasperated. “Champion— you can’t let her! Stop this madness!”

Hawke wasn’t _about_ to let Meredith get away with anything. She turned to face the Knight-Commander, who was already counter-protesting. “And I demand you stand with us. Even you must see that this outrage cannot be tolerated.”

“Really?” Hawke laughed bitterly. “You still really think I’m on your side?”

Sebastian was standing nearby, suddenly. “Why are we debating the Right of Annulment when the mage who did this is right here?” he demanded.

“You know things are bad when Sebastian Fucking Vael is actually more intelligent than you,” Hawke said to Meredith. Then she turned to face him, teeth gritted, murder in her eyes. “Although. Are you sure you want to press this? Are you really sure? Think carefully.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes and looked as though he was about to respond, but Meredith was yelling at Hawke again. “This is your last chance, Champion. You can either side with me against these criminals, or you will die like the rest of them.”

“Hawke.” She looked over; that was Aveline talking. “If you side with Orsino, I don’t know if I can follow.”

“These mages would become magisters if they could,” Fenris said. “And yet you are still willing to fight for them? You are still willing to throw yourself at a hopeless cause?”

“Are you sure about this?” said Varric. “Even you might not win this fight.”

Hawke couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Were her friends _really_ suggesting that she side with Meredith? She glowered at them. “Are you fucking kidding me? She’s suggesting the Right of Annulment and you want me to fucking side with her? _Really?_ Wow! That sure is a fucking thing. Well I’ll tell you what. Aveline, you and Varric can take on the fucking childrens’ dormitory. And Fenris, you can fucking clean up behind them. That’s right. Oh! And make sure to be thorough. Don’t let a single one of those fucking kids escape. What’s that? They’re hiding, shivering under their beds? Well tough fucking luck, this is what we fucking signed onto, isn’t it? They all deserve to die because at least that way it’s not a _lost fucking cause, right?_ ”

Hawke was quivering in anger as she stared them down. They didn’t say a word and instead all looked at each other nervously.

Finally, though, Merrill spoke up. “I believe in you, Hawke,” she said softly. “I’ll stand with you. No matter what.”

“As will I,” said Isabela. “I mean. It’ll be fun, right?”

“I’m with you, sister,” said Carver.

Aveline sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Maker’s… ugh. Alright, Hawke. I… see what you’re trying to do, and my place is with you.” She looked over at the others— at Varric, at Fenris— and they both nodded.

“You are a fool, Champion,” said Meredith. Then she turned to her templars. “Kill them all! I will rouse the rest of the Order!”

Hawke had been waiting for this, a fighting dog on a leash, and she lunged at Meredith, but the other templars were ready for her and two of them tackled her to the ground. Her rage knew no bounds, and she let the Fade in all at once, like a swell of rushing water, and the result was a sudden, bright blast of electricity in every direction. She didn’t bother to direct it, she just let it destroy what it wanted to destroy— which happened to be the two templars holding her down. _I am a tempest_ , Hawke thought, and she was almost giddy with the thrill of it all. _I am unstoppable._

The templars weren’t expecting her anger and they weren’t ready to counter it. Instead they both fell, dead almost as soon as Hawke’s lightning spell had hit them. She pulled herself back upright. Meredith was already gone, so Hawke attacked another templar instead. This one she crushed from the inside, manipulating gravity in such a way that he cried out in pain and fell to the ground. Hawke jumped on him, using her weight to hold him down as she turned the water vapor in the air around him into ice, freezing him solid. Once she was satisfied that he was dead, she climbed off of him and spun around, ready to attack whomever was next.

No one else was next. The other templars had either fled or were dead. Orsino was surveying the carnage with dismay. “So it’s come to this,” he said. There was pain in his voice. “I don’t know if we can win this war, Champion. But… thank you.”

Hawke didn’t know why he was so distraught. Of course it had come to this. What else would it come to? War had been inevitable this entire time. Anders had been absolutely right to force it.

_Anders—_

Where was he?

She cast her gaze about desperately, trying to find him, before she saw him sitting on a crate a little ways away. He was facing a wall and not looking at her or at any of the rest of them.

“I will leave your friend for you to deal with,” said Orsino, and the way he said the phrase struck Hawke as odd, somehow, although she couldn’t quite pin her finger down on why. “I must return to the Gallows. Meet me there as soon as you can.”

He left, and Hawke was left alone with her friends. They all looked over at her expectantly. Their expressions were apprehensive. Why? She didn’t get it.

Anders was on the crate, and Hawke approached him. “Anders?” she asked.

There was no response.

He probably felt bad for doing what he’d done. That was understandable. Well, she’d just have to reassure him that he wasn’t the only one around with blood on his hands. She’d certainly killed a great many people over the last few years, and she had no doubt that at least a few of those were people just trying to make a living to feed their family. She was far from innocent. “Anders,” she said again, and she approached him.

This time, his response was quick. “There is nothing you can say that I haven’t already said to myself. I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever to achieve this. This is the justice all mages have awaited.”

Hawke paused. Something about the response was off. It sounded canned, rehearsed. And what a strange thing to say. Did he really think Hawke was going to be upset at him? Is that what he was worried about? “I know,” she said. It was true. Of course this was justice. It was a precise, calculated strike, and it had been perfectly carried out. Anders had mentioned before that he was scared that he had warped Justice into Vengeance, but this move was proof that it was not so. Vengeance would have gone on a spree and murdered every last templar in Kirkwall. No, this was Justice, pure and simple.

Anders looked down at the ground. “I wanted to tell you,” he said quietly. “But… I was afraid you’d try to stop me. Or worse, want to help. I couldn’t let you do that.”

That made sense. Sure, Hawke was disappointed that she hadn’t been able to help more thoroughly. But no, doing it alone, and making sure that everyone saw he had done it alone, was an essential part of the plan. She couldn’t blame him for that. “I know,” she said again. 

Anders was still looking down. He was fidgeting with the Hawke family signet ring, turning it around and around on his finger.

“Anders,” Hawke said softly. She put a hand on his feathered shoulder.

That seemed to startle him, and he looked back up at the wall in front of him. But then he looked down again. “I want you to know,” he said, “That this… this was all me. It wasn’t Justice or… well. It can’t have been Justice. When Justice and I merged, he ceased to be. We are one now. And I can no more ignore the injustice of the Circle than he could. This is who I am. This is all I am. What else am I, if not a seeker of justice? The world needs to see this. Then we can all stop pretending the Circle is a solution.”

He was preaching to the chanter, but Hawke loved him. She was going to tell him so, but he interrupted her before she could.

“And if I pay for that with my life,” Anders said, “Then I pay. Perhaps then Justice would at least be free.”

His life? What was he talking about? The battle hadn’t started yet. It had only just begun. Why was—

Then it all came forward and Hawke’s blood ran cold.

The way Orsino had told her to “deal” with him. The way her friends were all looking at her with trepidation.

Did…

Did they…

Did they really expect her to _kill_ him?

The person she loved? This beautiful soul who was half-man, half-spirit, and all fire and light and song and brilliance and justice?

This being who had just made the hardest decision he’d ever made, just to ensure that no one else would ever have to make that decision again?

Her entire being filled with a mixture of disgust and horror. She wanted to throw up. Did they really think that? Did they think she would tire of being second to his cause? Did they really think she would willingly play Maferath to the Circle’s own personal Andraste?

And did _he_ —

—did _he_ really think that?

_“You can protect me from them. I’m not afraid of them.”_

_“Then tell me what you are afraid of.”_

_“I… would rather not. Just. Hold me.”_

Of course he thought she would be angry. Of course he thought she would ultimately reject him. That wasn’t his fault. Oh, everyone _else_ standing there probably should have known better. But Anders? He had spent the majority of his formative years in an environment where he was considered a vile curse just for existing. Mages don’t deserve freedom or family or a life. Mages don’t deserve love. Mages don’t deserve a partner who will always, always be there for them. Of course he thought he couldn’t ever have that. Of course he thought he could never _deserve_ that. The Circle had warped his thoughts entirely, perhaps permanently, and the fact that it had done so was just another reason Hawke was confident that he had made the right choice just now.

Hawke walked around the box so she was standing in front of Anders. His head was still bowed and he was looking at the ground. She was filled with so much warm affection she didn’t know how to process it. “Anders, love,” she murmured. She dropped to her knees, then, and wrapped her arms around him tightly. She buried her face in his neck. “I’m here, love,” she whispered. “I always will be. You’re safe.”

Anders said nothing, at first. He seemed to be numb, and his entire body was stiff and unyielding. But, finally, he enveloped his own arms around Hawke and pushed his nose into her shoulder. “Marian,” he choked. He was fighting back tears.

“Shhh. I have you.” Hawke stroked his back lovingly and he slid off the box and seemed to collapse into her arms, half-kneeling, half-lying next to her. His tears were flowing freely, now, and she ran her fingers through his hair, its sunny golden shine marred somewhat by grime and bits of gray ash, but never fully extinguished. “I have you, love.”

“I thought—” Anders’ voice broke and he trailed off.

“I know. It’s okay. I understand.” Hawke kissed his temple. “The Circle made you think like that, and it’s cruel, but we’re going to stop them. We’re going to stop them so they don’t mess up anyone else like that ever again.” She kissed the side of his head again. “I am so proud of you.”

They held each other tightly for a moment, Anders clinging to her for support while she propped him up. She let him cry into her shoulder, and she looked over his to see the bewildered looks of her companions.

…well, they were mostly bewildered.

Merrill looked like she, herself, was about to cry from happiness, her hands up near her mouth, and Isabela was snorting as she slapped Varric on the back.

And Sebastian? Where was he? Had he left?

That was just as well. As far as Hawke was concerned, he could go fuck himself.

“Hawke?” Varric spoke up. “We’d best get to the Gallows. I think things are going to get messy pretty quick here.”

“Anders.” Hawke whispered his name into his ear. “Do you think you’re up for this? We’re going to take the fight to the templars, once and for all.”

Anders took a few breaths to steady himself before he replied. “I’ll fight the templars,” he said. “Damned right I will.”

He and Hawke pulled apart just enough to look each other in the eyes, and then they kissed each other— right there in the fire and the ash and the debris, because _fuck the world, it’s our turn._

If they’d had time and maybe some privacy (although Hawke wasn’t sure if she even cared about that bit, at that point), Hawke probably would have tugged their clothes off and made love right there beneath the lingering magenta haze that hung in the air where the Chantry had been. Unfortunately, that would have to wait. There was a battle to fight. There was a war to spark. There was a rebellion to lead. Hawke pulled away and pressed her forehead to Anders’. She inched her fingers up into his golden hair to feel that red silk ribbon tie that he always wore. “You’re mine,” she said. “Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” Anders promised, and he was smiling. “Not anymore.”

Then she stood up and held out a hand, helping Anders up, and they turned to leave—

—and that’s when Sebastian stormed up to them.

He paused a few paces away and glared at Hawke, toxicity in his eyes. “You condone this murder?” he asked. “Elthina was a good woman, the Maker’s most faithful. _He,_ ” he pointed to Anders, “Killed her. And you not only condone that but— delight in it?”

Hawke shrugged. “She could have left Kirkwall. She didn’t. You said so yourself. She knew a revolution was coming and she chose to stay. That’s on her.”

“No! It is _not_ on her!” Sebastian’s eyes were alight. “It’s on your pet abomination! And I refuse to allow you to let him walk free. He dies, or I am returning to Starkhaven. And I will bring such an army with me on my return that there will be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule.”

Hawke took a step towards him. Her staff was smoking, just a bit, like kindling. “I will give you one final chance to walk away,” she said with a deep growl. “Which is much, much more than you deserve. Stand. Down.”

“I won’t fight you, Hawke,” said Sebastian. “My death now would mean nothing. But I will return to Starkhaven. And I swear to you, I will come back and find your precious Anders—”

She’d warned him. She’d warned him at the party that if he ever threatened Anders again she’d kill him. And she wasn’t going to wait around for him to remember that. Somewhere, off in the distance, she heard Varric yelling for her, but she ignored him completely and hurtled a white hot ball of flame at Sebastian.

He let out a cry of shock. His armor kept him from the worst of the heat, but it distracted him, and Hawke took the opportunity to wave a hand and shove him to the ground with force magic. She was on top of him in a flash, her boot on his neck. “I fucking warned you,” she said.

“ _Hawke! Templars!_ ” That was Varric yelling at her again.

Hawke looked up just as templars rushed in on them. She decided, quickly, to change tactic, and without taking her boot off of Sebastian’s throat, she pulled flames out of the wreckage that surrounded them and whipped them up into an immense firestorm overhead. “Run! Run!” she yelled at the others. “Get to the Gallows!”

A templar was on her, reaching up with a hand to nullify her connection to the Fade, but then Anders was there, frost at the ready, and then Hawke couldn’t control the firestorm anymore and she let it loose. It hit the ground with a dizzying explosion, sending she and Anders flying backwards, although he pulled up a barrier just in time to cover them. They lay there together on the ground, holding each other and waiting out the storm. After a few moments it cleared, and Hawke sat up to survey the damage. It was difficult to see in the cloud of smoke, but all the templars— and Sebastian— were prone on the ground.

Good.

Hawke didn’t have time to check if they were dead or not. She’d just have to assume they were. Hopefully, if they weren’t already dead, the smoke would finish them off.

“Sister!” Carver yelled at her. “Come on! We’ve got to get to the Gallows!”

Hawke and Anders stood up and ran towards the others. “What’s the quickest way?” Hawke asked, once they were all running as a group. “Is there a way we can avoid templar patrols?”

“Yes,” said Isabela. “Follow me. I’ve got a ride for us at the docks.”

“You mean your new boat?” Hawke said between breaths.

“What?” said Isabela. “Oh, fuck no. This is a smaller one. But it’ll work just fine.” They all quieted down as Isabela led them to the docks, where, sure enough, she had a boat waiting for them. It was a small, quick vessel, with just enough room for everyone to squeeze on. Hawke was the last, once everyone was aboard, and then Isabela let down the sails and they pushed off towards the Gallows.

  


The mood was terse as the little craft slipped through the dark waters. Hawke was by Anders’ side, an arm around him tightly, and every so often he would turn to her and slip his chin atop her head for a few moments before going back to nervously trying to peer into the distance. Hawke never once let go of him. She was determined to make sure he knew she was there and always would be there.

She wasn’t so sure what she thought about her companions at the moment, though. If they had expected her to kill the man she loved over what he’d done, then they must not have approved very much of his actions. She didn’t know if she could quite trust them the same way she had before— especially the ones who had immediately questioned her decision to side with Orsino and the mages. Oh, she knew them well enough to know that they would never try anything funny so long as she existed. But if they were tolerating Anders only because they liked her? Hawke didn’t like that.

It was just as well. She didn’t think she’d ever see most of them again after this impending battle anyway. They had been good friends during her time in Kirkwall, but she was ready to move on. And honestly, she never wanted to see Kirkwall again.

The boat approached land and Isabela pointed. “Do you see that ship there? The big one? That’s mine. And, once we’re done with this templar business, ours.”

“I always knew you wanted to kidnap me,” said Hawke.

“Just don’t let it go to your head,” said Isabela. “That’s never any good.”

The craft bumped up against the shore and Hawke and the others all leaped off and made their way to the Gallows, where they spotted Orsino and a number of his Circle mages almost immediately. They were surrounded by templars on all sides. Enraged, Hawke ran up to them, frost at her fingertips and Anders on her heels. One templar went down to her magic, and then another, shocked, went down to her dagger in his throat, blood spurting from the wound, and then she whirled on a third, whom Anders had already set on fire, and finished the job with an immense bolt of lightning. With the templars momentarily cleared out, Hawke turned to face Orsino. “First Enchanter!”

“Champion! Thank the Maker you’ve survived.” Orsino began to make his way to her— but stopped in his tracks, and looked up beyond her, suddenly, terror in his eyes, and Hawke already knew what he was looking at.

She spun around, staff at the ready, teeth gritted, just as Meredith arrived, with Cullen right beside her. “There you are, Champion,” Meredith said, and her voice was biting.

“Let us talk, Knight-Commander,” said Orsino, taking a few steps forward. “And come to an agreement before you destroy the very city you claim to protect.”

Hawke could have laughed. Really? Did he really think that there was talking to be done?

Meredith replied before she could. “I will entertain a surrender,” she said. “Nothing more.”

Knight-Commander and First Enchanter met a few paces from each other, then, while Hawke stood to the side, staff ready, waiting for the command to strike and kill.

“Speak, if you have something to say,” said Meredith. Beside her, Cullen had his arms crossed and he was glowering at Hawke. She thought she wanted to kill him almost as much as she wanted to kill Meredith. Maybe she would finally get the chance.

“Revoke the Right of Annulment,” said Orsino. “Search the tower, if you must. I will even help you. But do not kill us all for an act we did not commit.”

“The Grand Cleric is dead,” Meredith replied. “Killed by a mage. The people of Kirkwall will demand retribution, and I will give it to them. Your offer is commendable, Orsino, but it comes too late.”

“Well,” said Hawke. “Isn’t that just too damn bad?” She was itching to fight, although she felt Anders put a hand on her shoulder behind her. He wanted her to wait, for whatever reason, so wait she would. _Falcon and falconer_ , she reminded herself.

“I suppose I should have expected this from you, Champion,” said Meredith. “I should have expected you’d side with an abomination rather than see sense. But so be it. You will share the Circle’s fate.”

“Freedom?” said Hawke. “Sounds like a good fate to me.”

“So what is it to be, Meredith?” Orsino sounded exasperated. “Do we fight here?”

“No,” said Meredith, and that immediately had Hawke suspicious. She may not have had all her templars with her at the moment, but she had enough, and between her and Cullen she could easily put up a fight. She must have had some other plan, if she was willing to put off trying to kill them all right here. “Go and prepare your people,” Meredith continued. “The rest of the Order is already crossing the harbor.”

“This isn’t over,” Orsino scowled.

He and Meredith then stared each other down, for a few moments, before Meredith and her templars turned to leave. Hawke watched them go until they were out of eyesight, and then she and her friends followed Orsino into the Gallows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CRIED WHILE WRITING THIS CHAPTER I HOPE YOU ALL CRIED TOO


	39. The World Turned Upside Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Anders make their final plans and have a final moment together, and then the entire Kirkwall Crew heads into battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** Anders tells a flashback story at the beginning of this chapter which includes some pretty dark and gruesome Circle abuses.

They all met in the Gallows prison.

Orsino’s Senior Enchanters were off gathering the other mages of the Circle and making sure they were ready. Representatives from the Mage Underground were there with the gifts that the nobles had bestowed upon them recently, ensuring that every mage had ample amounts of lyrium potions as well as new robes and a new staff, if needed.

Hawke’s friends were readying themselves, as well. Isabela was applying poisons to her daggers while Merrill watched intently and asked questions. Fenris and Carver were sparring in one corner and comparing techniques. Aveline was talking to Orsino about something. Varric was oiling his crossbow.

And Anders…

Anders was staring at a whipping post.

They had one of those, here. They had a few of them, in fact. Because of course they did.

It was bloodied and well-worn and the manacles were rusted, and Anders was nervously shifting a bit on his feet as he stared at it.

Hawke approached him. “Love?” she asked gently.

Anders tilted his head just enough to look over at her. “It was the day they caught me after I swam across Lake Calenhad. I’d managed to evade the templars for a couple of weeks, and it was so wonderful being out in the world again, but… they had my phylactery. Of course it wouldn’t last forever.” He looked back at the whipping post. “They dragged me down to the Kinloch Hold dungeons. I thought they would throw me in a cell for a couple of days, because that’s what they usually did when they found me again. But then they bypassed the cells and, well. Then I saw the post. It looked much like this one. I saw it, and I knew what they were doing, and I had been struggling before, already but now I began kicking and screaming. A templar smacked me across the face. He was wearing his gauntlets. It… left a mark. For a long time.

“They pulled my robe off of me and shoved me against the post. I was still kicking; I would have bit them but I knew it would be utterly useless, all in their armor like that. I don’t know if I’d ever felt so helpless. I was… I mean, I’m not the biggest person around,” he gave a sort of sad, ironic half-smile, “But back then I was… Maker. I was a twig. And there were three templars, all in heavy armor, doing whatever they wanted to me. One of them wasn’t wearing his helmet, and he grinned at me. I recognized him. I’d seen him around before. He was one of the most hated people in all of Kinloch Hold. He was known throughout the whole tower for being a sadist, and he loved scaring people. Once I overheard him tell a group of apprentices ‘maybe they’ll make you all tranquil. I always like when they make the pretty ones tranquil.’ And now down in the dungeon he smiled at me and I wanted to… I wanted to throw up. From fear and disgust and—” he trailed off.

Hawke stepped forward, then, and pulled him into her fierce, strong arms, and Anders burrowed into her chest and she stroked his hair while he continued his story. “They grabbed my wrists and put them in irons. They were rusted and sharp and dug into my skin. And I was… hanging there, useless, and even if I’d wanted to move I wouldn’t have been able to, I was just… paralyzed from terror and…” He nuzzled himself closer into Hawke, as though he was trying to push his way inside her protective soul. “I have never in my life felt so hated. I felt like an animal, or a slave. But I was a mage— just as bad to the templars, if not worse. And they—” he shut his eyes. “They whipped me. I don’t know how many times. Two dozen, maybe. I don’t know if they had a number, they were just going as long as they wanted. The pain was blinding. I couldn’t think. The templar who did it was the one without a helmet, the one I told you about. He _enjoyed_ it, and…” he buried his face into Hawke’s chest.

“I will find him and I will gouge his fucking eyeballs out,” Hawke murmured into Anders’ hair. “That’s before I chain him to the damn post and whip him myself. And then kill him.”

Anders was still burrowed into Hawke as he continued his story. “Afterward they unhooked me from the post and I just… fell. The templars dragged me to a cell, then, and threw me in. Didn’t give me clothes. Didn’t give me water. I was just lying there, half-naked, half-conscious. Once I could move again I attempted to cast a healing spell. And that’s when one of the templars standing guard outside stopped me. Not with words. Just— cast a smite. Knocked the wind out of me. I fell onto my back. The pain was excruciating. I remember… I remember tunnel vision. A lot of blood. I might have passed out, I don’t know.

“I tried to heal myself again, later, when I came to. And they stopped me, again. The same way. I asked them why— I was crying, I wasn’t lucid. And that’s when they told me that they wouldn’t let me heal myself. That they wanted the scars there for me to remember.

“I don’t know how long I was in that cell for. I don’t know if I could even try to guess. I drifted in and out of consciousness. I begged a lot. For food, water— clothes to keep the flies off my back whenever I slept fitfully. On my stomach, because that’s the only way I could. The templars ignored me completely and gave me just enough food and water to be kept alive. One of the templars feeding me complained to the other one. ‘Wish we could just starve him. The only good mage is a dead one.’

“That one templar from earlier, the one that had whipped me, came back after a bit. Taunted me through the bars. ‘Crawling around on your stomach like a worm,’ he said. ‘At least worms aren’t an accursed plague on society.’

“Then he said, ‘Maybe that will teach you. Maybe now you’ll know not to go try to corrupt good, decent folk.’

“‘He’ll never listen to you,’ said another templar. ‘He’s got demons all over him. I can tell. Look at him, look at the way he moves in there. That’s not normal.’

“I didn’t know what they were talking about. If I was acting strange it was because they’d just beaten me. I tried to talk but I was in too much pain. I might’ve been drooling. They laughed at me. Called me a rabid dog. Barked at me. Threw a bone from a nearby cell at me. It hit me in the head. I don’t know who that bone belonged to. A mage, once.’”

Anders shuddered in Hawke’s arms before continuing. “I begged them to stop. They thought I wanted food and they told me, ‘why don’t you throw up and eat that like the dog you are.’

“The only thing that was kind to me down there was a cat. We had a few mousers in the tower, and the friendliest was named Mister Wiggums. He came down to the dungeon and saw me and walked over and sat there, by the bars. I held a finger out to him and he licked it. I… cried. Because I had someone there. The one being who didn’t care what I was. But then the templars saw and they chased him away.

“I kept wondering why they hated me so much. I knew they already hated me just for being a mage. Was that… was that enough to spark such hatred as they showed me when they beat me that day? But then I heard them talking to each other about how they couldn’t go out with the other templars that night. It was their evening off, but because they had to guard me, they couldn’t leave. That’s why they hated me so much. I was a bother, ruining everything _normal_ about their lives. Never mind the fact that it was all their own fault for beating me and having to watch me to begin with. They hated me because I was a mage, and they hated me because being a mage was more of a nuisance to them than it was to me.

“I got out of the cell, eventually. First Enchanter Irving took me into his study and told me I needed to start being a good little mage like all the other good little mages. He was talking as though I’d been given a slap on the wrist with a twig and not…” he trailed off.

Hawke held him in silence for a while, gently stroking his hair and quietly letting him know that he was in loving, caring hands now— not cruel, hateful ones. But finally she asked, “What happened to those templars? The ones guarding your cell.”

“As far as I know? Nothing. Maybe they died when Uldred’s demons took over.”

“Well,” said Hawke, “If they didn’t, I’m going to track every last one down. Then I’m going to freeze their bones solid with ice. While they’re still alive. Do you think that’s good enough? I’m not sure if that’s good enough. I’ll think about it, though. I’m sure I can come up with something good.”

Anders pulled away so he could look in Hawke’s eyes and he smiled. Only he, Hawke thought, could take her ridiculous pledges to brutalize templars for what they were: tokens of her deepest affection. “That’s why I love you,” he said. “Well, one of the many reasons.” There was soft love in his eyes, and crinkles at the corners. “This is the start of something wonderful. Mages aren’t going to be tortured anymore just for wanting to see the sky. I used to dream about this day. About as often as I dreamed about you.”

“You don’t still dream about me?” Hawke grinned.

“I do. Granted, dreams aren’t as good as the real deal.” They kissed, and then Anders looked down. “I should have trusted you,” he said. “Even with all we’ve shared… I never thought you’d spare my life.”

“I know, love,” said Hawke. She smiled at him. “That’s not your fault. The Circle made you think like that. Well, The Circle, and, you know. Some nasties in your brain. But we’ll work through them. Together.”

Anders looked up at her, but he was concerned. “If we live through this, you know I’ll be hunted. No one in Kirkwall will offer me mercy. But… if you would join me. I’d rather be on the run with you than safe with anyone else.”

Hawke’s smile was warm with love. She wondered, briefly, if Anders knew how obvious the answer was and was asking the question anyway. Then she realized it didn’t matter. He had things to work through, and so did she, and as she’d just said: _together_. “You do realize I will kill anyone who ever tries to tear me away from you, yes? Of course I’ll come with you. I would follow you anywhere.”

“You agree, then, even though the fight may continue for as long as we live?” Anders was questioning, but hopeful. “Kirkwall can’t change alone, love. Even if we win here, it will take years of open warfare throughout Thedas before mages can be safe. If you wish to stay with me, you must join me in that fight. There will be no turning back once this revolution starts. We are in it until every last Circle is disbanded, or until we die. Whichever comes first.”

Hawke threaded her arms around Anders’ waist. “Then we will be fugitives together,” she said.

Anders smiled warmly and put his own arms around Hawke as he pressed his forehead to hers. “We will fight for a world where our children can be born mages and free. Where no one ever dies for being exactly how the Maker created them. Ten years, a hundred years from now— someone like me will love someone like you. And there will be no templars to tear them apart.”

They kissed, tenderly; holding each other close and savoring the moment. Hawke was, somewhere in the back of her mind, acutely aware that if the impending battle went south, then this could be the last time they ever held each other like this. But she also knew, deep within her soul, that she would not let that happen. She would not let them part. Not ever. If he died— which she wouldn’t let happen to begin with, but if he did— she would tear her way into the Fade to bring him back. And if _she_ died, she knew he would do the same for her.

And if they both died? Her spirit wound wander the Fade unceasingly until she found his, and then she’d cling to him there and no force would ever part them again.

They pulled away, finally, and Anders’ voice was one of determination as he said “May the Maker bring us victory, or everything else is meaningless.”

“If the Maker isn’t going to bring us victory I will claw my way to it,” said Hawke. She meant it.

Orsino approached them, and Anders and Hawke rather reluctantly let go of each other. “Are you prepared, Champion?” Orsino asked her. “I fear the battle is almost upon us.”

“You don’t sound very optimistic,” said Hawke.

Orsino sighed. “With you on our side? We might have a chance of winning this fight. But even if we win this battle, what happens then? More templars would come, with even larger armies. We are apostates now. Our only hope lies in the Circles elsewhere in Thedas.”

“With all due respect,” said Hawke, “Anders and I plan on making sure there are no more Circles _left_.”

Orsino didn’t sound convinced. “It’s true that they could rise up with us against this injustice,” he said. “But I assure you, we will find sympathy with no one else.”

“Since when have mages ever found sympathy from anyone else?” Hawke shrugged. “Anyway. I’m ready if you are.”

“Very well,” said Orsino. “I’ll give orders to my people. I would recommend that you do the same for your companions.”

Hawke nodded, and she turned to face the others. They saw that something important was happening and walked over, looking at her with trepidation. “So,” Hawke said. “Here’s the deal. We’ve all fought together before so I trust you all know what to do and how to do it. Aveline, Carver, Fenris— you hold their attention and keep them from getting to the rest of us. Isabela? You know that stabbing thing you’re good at? Do that. Varric, stay on the outside and try to pick them off as best as you can. You know, bolts to the head and all that fun stuff? Merrill. You know what’s okay to use right now? Blood magic. I’m not very good at it, but I know you are, and if there’s any time we need it, it’s right now.” She looked over at Anders, and smiled. “And you know what you do best.”

“Heal people and look cute?” Anders smiled back.

“Heal people and look cute,” Hawke said. She looked around at her friends again. They were looking at her expectantly, and she knew why. “Look,” she said. “I’m not good at making big final speeches or statements or anything. I’d say we can all go to the Hanged Man later to celebrate, but truthfully? Myself and Anders are going to have to get the fuck out of Kirkwall pretty much as soon as this all goes down. Isabela has graciously agreed to provide us with a ride, so she’s stuck with us for a bit longer.”

“Aren’t I just lucky,” said Isabela.

Hawke snorted, but then fell silent. “Anyway, I… I don’t… know if I would have made it this far without you lot. So, thank you. Truly. For putting up with me.”

“Oh, stop before you make me all weepy, Hawke,” said Varric.

Orsino came up behind them. “Champion. It’s beginning.”

No sooner had he said this when the entrance to the prison seemed to fall apart completely and dozens of templars streamed in. The sight was horrifying. Seeing one templar was uneasy enough. Seeing more than a few was deeply, deeply concerning. And seeing almost every last templar in Kirkwall? It was the stuff of nightmares.

Several of Orsino’s mages fell almost immediately, dead by templar swords through their chests. It was what was going to happen to them anyway, Hawke thought bitterly, but at least this time they’d been killed on their feet, able to move and fight, rather than slaughtered like lambs in their cells. Still, she was determined to prevent as much death as she possibly could. She turned to her companions, but Carver, Aveline, and Fenris had already leaped into the fray, surprising the templars who were expecting staves and not swords. Isabela was among them too, a deadly whirlwind, while Varric had his crossbow out and Merrill turned the shed blood that was raining on the ground into a corrosive vapor. Anders, standing beside Hawke, was alight with beautiful, righteous fire. Justice, it seemed, was exulting in finally bringing the fight to the templars. Hawke took courage from him and summoned a lightning storm at the choke point where all the templars were continuing to stream in.

That definitely stemmed the tide, but the templars’ numbers were overwhelming. For every one they killed, two more seemed to run in. Mages were falling left and right. Each death fueled Justice, as well as Hawke’s anger, but Hawke and the others found themselves retreating, step by step.

“Shit,” Hawke hissed under her breath. She’d run out of mana for the big spells and was just using her staff to send bolts of arcane energy at whomever was closest. She was keeping an eye out for Meredith, but hadn’t seen her yet. Where was she? Was she waiting for them to wear themselves down before arriving?

The waves of templars seemed to slow down momentarily, before finally coming to a stop. Hawke knew it was temporary, but the breather was welcome. She leaned over, one hand on her knee, the other still clutching her staff. All of her companions were equally weary— except Anders, who was darting about like a fierce glowing bird, searching for more templars to rip apart. Only when he was absolutely sure that they were alone for now did the glow subside, and then he immediately went to Hawke’s side. “Are you doing alright, love?” He held up his hands and cast a warm, energizing spell. Hawke felt the soothing magic tingle throughout her nerves and muscles, relieving some of the pain.

Hawke stood back up and stretched, trying to prevent any cramping. “Never been better,” she said, and offered a half-smile.

Anders smiled back and went off to cast the same relieving spell on the rest of the survivors, and Hawke took the opportunity to look around. All of her companions were none the worse for wear, thankfully, but they were surrounded by bodies— templars and mages alike. She was still attempting to process this and decide what their options could possibly be when Orsino approached. She turned to him. “First Enchanter?”

Orsino was shaking his head. He was numb, almost— there was no expression on his face. “Look at it all,” he said. “Why don’t they just drown us as infants? Why wait? Why give us the illusion of hope?”

“It’s disgusting,” said Hawke. “But we’re going to fucking stop them.” In that moment, she was angry enough that she fully believed it. She would, single-handedly, kill every last templar who came through that smashed in door. When she ran out of mana she would down lyrium potions, and when she ran out of lyrium, she would start strangling them with her bare fucking hands.

But then Orsino turned, and there was a new expression on his face. He was determined. He was _snarling_. “I refuse to keep running. I won’t wait for her to kill me. I’m going to give you the fighting chance that you deserve, Champion.”

Hawke was about to ask him what he was talking about when she heard noises behind her. She whirled around. The templars had regrouped and about to make a second charge.

“If Meredith expects blood magic,” said Orsino behind her, “Then I will give her blood magic. Champion, you and yours go around them. You are our last hope.” And with those words, he pulled out a knife and slit his palm.

It took only a few seconds for Hawke to figure out what he was doing. He wasn’t just doing blood magic. He was willingly letting a demon inside of himself in order to create one final, unstoppable monster to keep the templars at bay as long as he could. He became a disgusting, mutilated creature, and everyone was staring but Hawke yelled at them to jump out of the way right as he lunged, brutalizing anyone he could reach without prejudice. The templars, knowing that this was the biggest threat they had faced thus far, all immediately focused their attacks on him. The abomination brought one of them down, and then another and another, but Hawke couldn’t wait around to see how things would turn out. The entryway was momentarily clear, and she and the others, as well as the few remaining Circle mages, dashed out into the templar halls.

The halls were largely clear and eerily quiet. The first living being Hawke saw wasn’t a templar, but a shade. Hawke dispatched it quickly, then turned to the others. “Demons,” she said.

“The Veil is thin here,” said Anders. “It’s a place of death and torture. Demons will be attracted to it like moths to a flame.”

Hawke nodded. “Keep your guard up,” she said to the others.

Cautiously, they made their way through the halls. The entire place had an oppressive aura to it that made Hawke uncomfortable. They ran into some more shades, although these were dealt with quickly, and at one point rounded a corner to face a room of templars, all of whom were being enchanted by a desire demon. That battle was fast and fierce and Carver came out of it with a rather nasty injury, although Anders was able to heal him almost completely once the fight was done.

Things quieted down after that as they approached the courtyard. Hawke paused once they were almost there and held up a hand, silently telling the others to pause. She thought she’d heard something.

A few seconds of silence passed, but then there it was: footsteps coming from somewhere around a corner in the direction of the courtyard. And not just any footsteps: heavy, metal boots. A templar. Alone.

She looked over at the others: they clearly heard what she did and knew what it meant. They readied their weapons, and Hawke reached out to the Fade, preparing a spell.

But then a voice called to her. “Champion!”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. She knew _exactly_ who the voice belonged to and it was not someone she wanted to talk to. Or ever see again, for that matter, unless she was going to be killing him.

“Champion!” The voice called again as the footsteps came to a halt. “I would like to speak to you. I have information for you.”

Hawke wasn’t about to fall for such an obvious trap, so she said nothing and waited for the footsteps to start up again—

And then Knight-Captain Cullen rounded the corner and Hawke was on him in a flash, shoving him to the ground, her talons around his neck. It was all very familiar, and Hawke liked it that way. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t rip your throat out right now,” she said.

“Hawke—” Cullen managed to choke out. Hawke was holding him in such a way that he could talk— barely— and not do much else. “Please. There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Bullshit,” said Hawke. “Meredith’s right fucking hand suddenly wanting to give us helpful information? I don’t believe that for a second.” She tightened her grasp on his throat and he sputtered and gasped.

“P— please,” he choked. “Lyrium… red…”

Hawke released her grip instantly. Behind her, she heard Varric say, “Shit.”

Cullen sat up, holding his throat with a gloved hand. Hawke stood and crossed her arms. “Tell me what you know. Be thorough.”

“She has a sword,” said Cullen after a moment, once he could talk again. He was still sitting on the ground, and he wasn’t looking at Hawke. “She showed it to me yesterday. It’s made of lyrium, but unlike any lyrium I’ve ever seen. It’s red. It’s done… something to her, I think. Corrupted her.”

“You say that as though she wasn’t corrupted before,” said Hawke.

“It has also given her enhanced strength,” Cullen pressed. “She has always been a deadly fighter, but now— I’ve never seen anything like it. I want no part in it. She needs to be killed. And when it comes to that, you are the best hope we have.”

“Well, that’s touching,” said Hawke bitterly.

“I know… that we haven’t always gotten along,” said Cullen. He looked up at Hawke. “And you’ve certainly made no secret of your feelings towards me. But these past few days… I don’t know. She said she wanted to arrest you, and now she wants to kill you? You saved the city from the Arishok and the Qunari. I feel that we owe you more than death at the hands of a crazed Knight-Commander. It might be what the other templars want, but it’s not what I want.”

Hawke couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was he saying he wanted to help her? Really? And had he just now figured out that Meredith was corrupt and wanted to kill her? Well, she supposed he had never been especially smart. “So,” she said, “You mean you were one of them until a convenient last minute change of heart.”

Cullen seemed to remember the words he’d said about Alain as she parroted them back to him. He looked down again and sighed. “I’m not here to debate with you, Champion. I am here to lend you my sword. You are going to need all the help you can get. You know you cannot refute that.”

Hawke really, _really_ hated to admit it but he had a point. She’d seen the effects of red lyirum firsthand, and it didn’t surprise her in the slightest that it enhanced its victims just as much as it ravaged them. Cullen would be a useful meat shield. She could send him in first and maybe Meredith would kill him instead of any of her friends. That sounded like a good plan, really. “Alright,” she said. “It’s your lucky day. You want to help fight Meredith? Wish granted.” She nodded at the courtyard entrance. “You go first.”

Cullen didn’t object. He stood, warily watching Hawke the entire time, and then they rounded the corner towards the courtyard. He was in front, Hawke right behind him, ready to react if he tried anything. But they exited the building without incident, and Meredith was waiting for them, flanked by about a dozen templars. Hawke peered at her; her sword was sheathed.

“And here we are, Champion,” said Meredith. “At long last.”

Hawke didn’t flinch. “Are you going to stop running away from me eventually? I want to watch you squirm as I kill you.”

“You have turned against the wrong person,” said Meredith. “I bear you no ill will. You’ve done this to yourself. You have elected to share the same fate as the Circle.” She seemed to notice Cullen for the first time, and she looked over at him. “And what are you doing standing with her?”

“Knight-Commander,” said Cullen. “I defended you when Thrask started whispering that you were mad. But this is too far. That sword is corrupting you.”

“I will not allow subordination!” Meredith shot back, and in one swift move she unsheathed her sword and pointed it at him. It was, indeed, the very same red lyrium that Hawke had seen before. Its unnatural crimson glow pulsated sickly in the night air, and even the other templars appeared to taken off guard by it, backing up a little at its appearance. Cullen took a step back, as well, hands out in front of him, but Hawke stood firm.

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks,” Varric mumbled.

“You recognize it, do you not?” Meredith looked right at Varric and then at Hawke. “Pure lyrium, taken from the Deep Roads. The dwarf charged a great deal for his prize.”

“No offense,” said Hawke, “But if you think I’m scared of a fucking rock, you don’t know me very well.” She brandished her staff; she was sick of talking.

Meredith turned to her templars. “I want her _dead_.”

“Enough!” Cullen stepped forward. “Tainted lyrium from the Deep Roads? A place of demons and darkspawn? This is not what the Order stands for. Knight-Commander, I hereby relieve you of your command. Step down!”

Slowly Meredith turned to face him. Her eyes seemed to be flashing red, but Hawke couldn’t tell if they actually were or if it was just a reflection from the glow of the sword. Her templars were still standing behind her, apparently too scared to move against her. “My own Knight-Captain falls prey to the influence of blood magic.” Then she spun on her other templars. “You all have! You’re all weak, allowing the mages to control your minds and turn you against me.”

Hawke was only vaguely following what was occurring as she reached out to the Fade with her mind and began collecting the energy she’d need for the fight ahead. A few demons lurked there, at the corners, but she paid them no mind. This was it. She was doing this for Anders, and for Bethany, and for Father, and for all the mages abused by the Chantry in countless ways and she was doing this for _herself_ , because finally she knew that as much as she hated herself, she didn’t deserve to be hated _simply for who she was._

Meredith whirled back around on Hawke, the flashing red sword pointed directly at her. “But I don’t need any of you. I will protect this city myself!”

Then she slammed her sword into the ground. It glowed and pulsed and Meredith was radiating as well, apparently taking power from it as she recited lines from the Chant. The templars behind her all backed up, unsure, and Hawke didn’t know if they were out of the fight or not but she wasn’t going to bank on it. Anders, beside her, was a bright blue star, and she knew her friends behind her were ready.

It was time.

Meredith leaped for her but Hawke was ready. She had never felt so close to the Fade before. Not in dreams. Not in visiting it via Marethari’s ritual. The closest, perhaps, was when she and Anders were intimate and she could feel the spirit in him, humming there just underneath his warm skin. But now here she was, and she was one with the blizzards in the highest reaches of the Frostbacks and she was one with the lightning that forked across the Lothering skies in summer and she was one with the very fire that lit her soul. She was all of it, at once, and she would not be denied.

Meredith, though, was prepared. And frighteningly so. For she wasn’t just any templar. Nor was she just the Knight-Commander, any longer. No, she was whatever the red lyrium had turned her into. Effortlessly she batted all of Hawke’s spells aside, one after the other. Then she reached out with a hand, as though turning an invisible crank in the air— and just like that, Hawke felt the Fade fall away from under her, as though someone had yanked a rug out from beneath her feet. The sudden disorientation almost caused her to lose her physical balance— which, she knew in the half a second that followed, she could not allow to happen because then it would be all over.

But then Anders was there, behind her, propping her up with a hand, and then he— as Justice— cried out _“You cannot take the Fade from me when I_ am _the Fade!”_ and then he was on Meredith, and then Carver and Fenris and Aveline were on Meredith, and then the fight truly began.

Later, much later, people would occasionally ask Hawke about that fight. And, usually, she’d direct them to the book Varric would write. _The Tale of the Champion_ , it was called. Hawke read it, once. She figured it covered about anything that anyone would need to know, albeit in Varric’s rather grandiose fashion. Any other details were between her and Anders.

But in the moment, Hawke hardly had time to think. Red lyirum, it seemed, had powers all of its own. Meredith stormed around the courtyard, and everywhere she went she left smoky trails of red flame in her wake. The trails moved too quickly for Hawke to dodge, and as one of them swept through her she felt it take her breath and mana away. But it hadn’t taken all of it, and even if Hawke couldn’t quite think at the moment she could at least _act_ , and when Meredith turned, just a bit, to fight off Aveline, Hawke leaped.

She landed almost atop Meredith’s back, where she dug her claws into her neck and cast a spell of cold and ice and it _worked_ , because Meredith screeched in pain and spun around, knocking Hawke aside. She whirled on her with her sword, but Fenris was there, parrying her, and then Isabela was there, disorienting her with a tiny ball of smoke, and that gave Hawke enough time to run for safety and hurl a bolt of pure spirit energy at her.

For a few tense seconds, things stabilized. Anders and Hawke stood there, together, casting in tandem, and his bright, blue glow beside her gave her strength. But Meredith wasn’t done, no, as she batted Fenris’ sword away as though it was a stick. He fell back, and she whirled on Aveline, instead.

While she was distracted by Aveline’s shield, Hawke decided it was time for a big spell. She downed a bottle of lyrium, quickly, and then pulled little sparks of static out of the air and shaped them into an electric storm, small at first, but then larger and larger. The others saw what she was doing, and cleared out, save for Aveline, who stayed in as long as she could until the crackling lightning got to be too much. Then she, too, backed away as thick black storm clouds descended upon them with a crash of peeling thunder.

For one hopeful moment, the storm was too thick for Hawke to see much of anything at all.

But then Meredith raged through it, her eyes glowing red, veins bulging. Hawke readied herself to take the impending blow, pulling up a barrier over herself— but no blow came. Meredith spun around and used her sword to cast some sort of spell at a nearby statue— causing it to crack once, twice, and then laboriously start _moving_.

From somewhere behind her, Hawke heard Isabela curse as the statue began to lumber towards them. It seemed to be easy enough to dodge— until it ripped a chunk of itself off with one of its massive hands, and then hurled it towards her.

The hunk of stone missed, but just barely— it crashed into the ground right next to Hawke and that sent her spinning backward, landing somewhere several feet away. No sooner had that happened when she felt Anders’ healing energy wash through her, and she was back on her feet again.

She ran to the other side of the courtyard. Carver was desperately trying to keep the moving statue occupied so Hawke could focus on Meredith. She turned to find her— and not a moment too soon, because then the Knight-Commander materialized from the dust and debris and was right on top of her.

Hawke cast her telekinetic stun right as Merrill summoned up a spell that ripped roots and plants right out of the ground. They entwined themselves around Meredith’s legs, and she tripped and fell, and then Hawke was atop her again. She whispered magic words beneath her breath and tried to do what she’d done to the Arishok. But Meredith _resisted_ it, and she leaped up again before Hawke could try anything else.

Then Anders was on her. He was glowing with a fervent, beautiful light and the Fade was in his eyes as he took Meredith’s neck in his hands with superhuman strength and managed to lift her off the ground—

—and then she ran her sword right through him.

Everything stopped. Hawke couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel. She thought she may have stopped breathing, entirely, or perhaps ended up on some completely different plane of existence. Anders’ eyes widened, for just a moment, and he dropped Meredith—

—and in that same moment she turned to face Hawke. There was wickedness in her voice as she spoke, and Hawke didn’t know if she actually heard her voice with her ears or just instinctively knew what she was saying, knew that she was bitterly spitting out the words “How does it feel, Champion? How does it feel to see me holding the fate of what is _dearest to you?_ ”—

—and Anders’ eyes narrowed, and his entire being seemingly became a blast of formless energy. Hawke couldn’t see him, anymore— she just saw a bright, _bright_ , searing _flame_ standing where he had been— and Meredith went flying back as Anders boomed, _“You cannot kill me! I am not of mortal men!”_

When Meredith landed on her back, she looked up at the burning, pulsing spirit in front of her, eyes wide with fear, and Hawke didn’t wait another second. She jumped atop her, knife in her hand, and plunged it into her throat. She kept it there and twisted it as Meredith sputtered and choked and Hawke shoved everything that was cold, everything that was ice and snow into that blade and then it fractured in her neck, and Meredith rolled over and took Hawke with her. They tussled there, on the ground. Meredith’s eyes were a burning crimson, and that same burning crimson was beginning to crack through her skin. A great beam of red light spilled from her throat, where Hawke had stabbed her, and it was actually so blinding that she had to shut her eyes against it. Again the two of them rolled so Hawke was on top of her again. Blood was everywhere. What Hawke had done to her with the knife would have killed anyone else, but Meredith was, apparently, not like anyone else. The red lyrium had made her something inhuman, and for a brief, tense second, Hawke wondered if it was even possible to kill her.

And then she realized she would refuse to let that be the case.

Hawke was going to kill her if it was the last thing she did.

For every last mage who had suffered under the templars. For every young child dragged from their homes and tortured in cells. For Anders—

—Anders was there, and he had taken on a vaguely mortal shape again although he was pulsing with the brightest blue Hawke had ever seen. Hawke took a fraction of a second to glance at him— he looked whole, _as though no sword had ever pierced him!_ — and in that moment Meredith kicked Hawke away and she fell backward. But Anders took her spot, and his hands were glowing with arcane energy and with raw power as he picked Meredith up with one hand and then slammed her into the ground.

Another crimson beam of light erupted from Meredith, then, as she screamed something to the sky— and that something sent a shockwave of power throughout the entire courtyard. Hawke had just managed to stand again when this newest spell sent her hurtling back, and Meredith stood, and her entire being was pulsing with hot, vermilion light. “I will not be defeated!” She screeched. She held her sword out to the sky as Hawke desperately tried to scramble upright again. “Maker! Aid your humble servant…!”

Hawke was back up, and the others were too, picking themselves up out of the rubble of the now defeated enchanted statue, and whatever Meredith was doing, it was shaping up to be her biggest, most dangerous move yet. Hawke backed away, and Anders was right there at her side, and she made to cast a barrier over the two of them but she was scrambling for the mana and willpower to do it, and Anders grabbed her and held her—

—and Meredith screamed in pain as the sword consumed her.

Hawke had no other way to describe it. One moment, Meredith was holding it to the sky, and the next moment, deep red tendrils leaped from it and wrapped themselves around her, like a knot of energy. She fell to her knees, screaming until she could scream no longer, as whatever taint the sword held thoroughly enveloped her. She was a hot flame, a blazing demon fire, but then she was still and the light cooled and blackened, and all that was left of Meredith was a dark, blackened husk.

Anders was still holding Hawke. He looked up; the light in his eyes faded away. “Maker,” he breathed. “What…”

Hawke spun on him, put her hand on his chest. He was whole. She’d seen a sword go through him and he was whole. “Anders,” she breathed.

Anders didn’t reply. He was too busy peering at Meredith’s remains. Hawke, too, followed his gaze. The blood-colored light was continuing to fade away. Meredith’s body had seemingly solidified into an obsidian statue, and as the seconds continued to tick by and her friends all approached, it became more and more clear: she was dead.

The Knight-Commander of the Gallows was dead.

“The Circle,” Anders whispered. “It’s…”

“It’s… not a Circle anymore,” Hawke finished for him. She turned to face Anders, again. “We did it,” she said, and her voice was soft and quiet in sheer disbelief. “The Knight-Commander is gone. Almost all the templars are dead. The mages… they’re free.”

Anders looked down at her, and his eyes were sparkling. “It’s over,” he breathed.

“No,” said Hawke. She put her hands on either side of his face. “It’s just beginning.”

She heard footsteps and they turned; Cullen was rushing up, as were the templars, who had apparently opted to stay out of the fight in sheer terror. They gaped at Meredith, and then looked up at Cullen. He appeared to have no answer for them, and he looked at Hawke. She glowered at him. The fight was over. They were no longer allies. If he wanted to try something…

…but he backed away. “Templars,” he said, and his voice was shaky. “Retreat.”

And they did. They each took several steps backward, and Hawke shot each and every one a warning glare. She could kill them. And she might have, except—

“Hawke!” Isabela yelled, as she ran up. “Come on! We’ve got to go!”

Hawke nodded, and she and Anders turned and they walked briskly out of the courtyard.

They were holding hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who won NaNoWriMo!! That's right ~~Hercules Mulligan~~ * I did!
> 
> There is ONE MORE chapter left in this fic! I'll probably have it up in a week or so. Thank you so much for reading so far!
> 
> * I may or may not have re-listened to the song when I titled this chapter.


	40. Long Live the Pioneers, Rebels, and Mutineers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders and Hawke sail away into the sunset. Almost literally.

The skies were still dark, but Hawke could barely, _barely_ make out the rising sun far to the east as they made their way to the docks where Isabela had her ship moored. She had Anders’ hand in hers, and behind her were her friends and the burning rubble of that accursed Chantry and the crystallized remains of a corrupt Knight-Commander.

Hawke felt as hopeful as she felt apprehensive. She genuinely had no idea what was going to happen beyond what she would be doing in a few minutes. Where would she be tomorrow? The next day? The day after that?

She only knew that wherever she went, she would have Anders at her side. And, honestly, that was enough.

They reached the ship and paused. This was it. Hawke was about to leave most of the people that she had spent the last six years with. She turned and looked at them. For some reason, they all seemed to look smaller than usual.

She thought about perhaps naming each of them in turn and giving them a personalized farewell, but then she opened her mouth and nothing came out, and Isabela was gesturing for them to get going. So she said, “Can… you guys do a favor for me? Make sure that the mages get out safely. Before more templars come.”

Fenris smiled wryly. “Helping mages get to safety? Only for you, Hawke.”

“Consider it done,” said Aveline.

“Hawke,” said Varric. “You… are going to leave ol’ Varric a mailing address, aren’t you? How else am I supposed to send you the limited edition signed copy of my book when it’s finished?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Hawke. “I’m sure if anyone can find me again, it’s you. Oh, and take care of the estate for me while I’m gone, will you? I might need it again, someday.”

“Hawke,” said Merrill. “Will you… ever come back? To visit, I mean.”

“I… don’t know,” Hawke admitted. “But if I ever do, you’re the first person I’ll track down.”

Merrill smiled, and then looked over at Isabela. “And… Isabela? You’re… not leaving forever?”

“I would never dream of leaving you for longer than is necessary, kitten,” Isabela replied. She winked at her, and Merrill blushed.

Then Isabela climbed aboard the ship, followed by Anders and Hawke and then Shadow. Varric yelled at them. “Anders!”

Anders turned.

“You take care of her, alright?” Varric said. “No rogue explosions?”

“Only when it’s necessary.” Anders half-grinned.

He and Hawke stood there at the ship’s railing, then, as Isabela pushed them off. “Sister!” Carver called out as the ship dove into the water. “Am I allowed to call you by your first name yet?”

“Fuck no,” Hawke yelled back. But she was smiling.

  


Once the shores of Kirkwall had faded into the distance, Hawke went over to Isabela, who was at the ship’s wheel. “So,” she said. “Dare I ask where we’re headed?”

“You, my friend,” said Isabela, “Have just booked passage to Llomerryn.”

“Llomerryn?” Hawke asked. “Isn’t that… how did Varric put it. A ‘wretched hive of scum and villainy’?”

“On a good day, yes,” said Isabela.

“Why there?” Anders asked. “I didn’t think they had a Circle there.”

“They don’t,” said Isabela. “And yes, my fine feathered friend, I know what you’re thinking. You want to start your revolution right this minute. And that’s all well and good, but neither of you are in any condition to get into another big fight right away. You also need a plan. I’ve got contacts in Llomerryn and you can take a breather and plot your next move. Sound good?”

Anders looked over at Hawke. “I know people in the Mage Underground all across the Free Marches. It might be better to start with one of them.”

“It might be,” said Hawke. “But once templars arrive from the other Circles to lock down Kirkwall, that’s where they’ll all be. In the Free Marches. I think Isabela might actually have the better idea. We’ll go somewhere far away and see how things go.” She reached out and took Anders’ hand. “We won’t stay there long. I promise.”

Anders smiled at her. “Alright,” he said.

“Well,” said Isabela. “I’ll admit that convincing you two to listen to me was a little easier than I thought it would be. Anyway. If you head below deck, you’ll see I’ve got a few rooms set up. One of them has enough food to last us the whole trek. I hope you like dry biscuits. And another has got a bed. I’d recommending sleeping, after all your excitement. I know you want to jump each other, but it might be best to get used to being on the ocean first. You know, to prevent any mishaps.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Hawke asked Isabela.

“Honestly? I’d already slept most of the day away when Varric woke me up in the middle of the night. I’m doing fine. When I need to take a breather I’ll let you know.”

“You’re sure?” Hawke pressed.

“Yes.” Isabela gave her a look. “Don’t make me spank you. We’ll both get carried away.”

Hawke snorted, and then she looked over to Anders. “Well?”

“Sleeping sounds wonderful,” he said, and he smiled at her.

They headed below deck. As Isabela had promised, much of the space down below was dedicated to storage and there were barrels upon barrels of food. Shadow walked between them and sniffed them, a few times, and Hawke patted him on the head and rubbed his ears. Then they found the cabin that Isabela had told them about. The room and bed were both quite small, but they were cozy and they would do. There was a closed porthole that served as a window, and a wooden dresser where they could put their things. Not that they had anything, really, beyond the clothes on their back and their staves. Hawke did notice, though, that some of their belongings had mysteriously been transferred from her estate to the dresser— including Anders’ manifesto. Some master thief had been at work, apparently. “Isabela,” Hawke said under her breath as she smiled.

Anders pulled off his coat tossed it aside, and then approached Hawke from behind and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her neck. “I have you,” he said.

“Always.” Hawke turned around in his arms and kissed him.

“I don’t know if I quite believed it before, but— I do now.” Anders smiled. “So long as I have you, and so long as we’re making progress with the revolution— I’ll go anywhere.”

Hawke put her arms around his waist. “Are you doing alright?” she asked him. “I know it hasn’t exactly been the easiest day.”

“I’m doing alright, for now,” said Anders. “I… don’t know if everything has quite sunk in yet.”

“We’ll sleep, then, and talk about it tomorrow,” said Hawke. She pulled off her own armor, and was glad to see that casual clothes were available in the dresser. She put a pair on, and Anders changed into some as well, and then they both crawled into the small bed and pressed themselves into each other. Anders was warm and smelled like blood and lyrium and ash and the Fade. Hawke felt safe, and she fell asleep in minutes.

  


The sun was high above the sea when they finally awoke the next day. Hawke woke first, and tenderly extracted herself from the bed so as not to wake her lover. She thought he deserved all the sleep he could get. She roused Shadow, who had been lying next to the bed, and then the two of them went and explored the food stores. As Isabela had said, there wasn’t much variety available, but she did find some jerky for her and Shadow to share. This was chased down by some water out of a barrel. Her appetite wasn’t particularly impressive because she was still adjusting to the boat’s constant movement under her feet, but the water was refreshing and helpful.

Hawke returned to the cabin. Anders was still asleep. She sat quietly in the chair where Anders had tossed his coat the night before. She lovingly stroked the coat’s feathers a few times, and then was hit with an idea. Carefully she plucked two shiny black feathers from the coat, and then she took some twine and tied them to the top of her staff. After admiring her work, she dug a red ribbon out of the dresser and then began to tie that around Anders’ staff. She was in the process of doing this when Anders stirred and looked over to her. His hair was all askew as he rolled over and looked at Hawke with a sleepy smile. “Morning, love,” he mumbled.

“Morning,” said Hawke. She held his staff out. “What do you think? I think it looks fetching.”

“I think you want the whole world to know that they can’t touch me,” Anders said, as he sat up.

“I mean, that too,” said Hawke. Anders approached and they kissed, and then Hawke put the staves aside. “Hungry?” she asked him.

“Mm,” Anders replied. “Not quite yet. I’m still getting used to this whole… boat business. Actually, I think I could use some fresh air.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Hawke. She took Anders’ hand and the two of them went up above deck.

Isabela was still at the wheel. “Did you lovebirds have a good sleep?” she asked.

“Very,” said Hawke. “Are you tired?”

“A little,” said Isabela. “But I know a place we can dock in a few more hours and we’ll rest there. Don’t worry about me. Just make yourselves at home.”

Anders was at the railing, looking out across the sea, and Hawke joined him. They were headed due north, and they were some distance from the shore although Hawke could see it if she squinted. Anders looked over at her, and he looked troubled. “I’m feeling conflicted,” he admitted. “A part of me— the Anders part of me— feels awful for what I did at the Chantry. Not for Elthina and the templars there, but for all the mages who died after, and any innocents who might have gotten caught in the blast. But the Justice part of me is calm, sated… happy. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.”

“You might be supposed to feel both ways at once,” Hawke said. “Since you are both Anders and Justice. It seems to me that feeling both would be natural.” She smiled and put a hand on his back. “Revolutions are complicated and messy. It’s not possible to have one that isn’t at least a little bloody. And those mages? Would’ve died anyway. At least this way we gave them a fighting chance.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Anders, and he looked out across the sea again.

“And, honestly? Those fireworks were a better present than some ridiculous Tevinter amulet,” said Hawke. She smiled at him.

Anders laughed a bit. He turned to look at Hawke; she put her hand on the railing and he put his on top of hers. “Perhaps it’s a bit selfish, after so much death and destruction, to feel happy. But… I’m happy. We’re going to go make the world a better place for… for people like us. Who deserve so much more.”

“People like us,” Hawke agreed. “ _Including_ us.”

“Yes,” said Anders. His eyes were shining. “We deserve it. Both of us do.”

And for the first time, Hawke believed that she _did_ deserve a better life, and she thought Anders probably thought so too, about himself, and her heart swelled to know that.

Things were going to get better. For her, and for him, and for every mage in Thedas.

She looked out across the ocean, and Anders did too. A swell of wind picked up and rustled her dark hair, and for just a moment she was in Lothering again, a gust blowing across the fields while Carver and Bethany sat nearby.

But then she was back on a ship, with her beautiful golden revolutionary at her side as the sun shone upon them from above, glinting off the sea, and Hawke had never been more proud that the two of them were together. From then on, she thought, when people thought back to the spark in Kirkwall that kickstarted a revolution, they wouldn’t just think of one man or one woman alone.

No, they’d remember the two people who started it, together— just a couple of scruffy, immigrant apostate mages.

Just a couple of renegades.

  


**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand [ROLL CREDITS!!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LNhBoxX7PvY)
> 
> I would like to extend special thank yous to the following people:
> 
>  **madamadequate** , for beta reading and proofreading like every damn chapter  
>  **ember_keelty** and **against_stars** , for being very enthusiastic and supportive throughout this whole process and also offering their beta reading services as needed  
>  **thinkfirst** and **auraelys** for commenting on almost every single chapter!!!  
>  And of course, everyone else who has read, commented, kudo'd, and/or left nice messages in my tumblr inbox.
> 
>  
> 
>  **THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL!!** It will pick up pretty much right where this fic leaves off. I've been planning to make this a trilogy, actually. I don't have a real ETA on the start of the next fic, I should probably actually take a break and put it off until next year and relax but also I'm kind of itching to start it. If you want to be notified when it goes live, I'd recommend [subscribing to this series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/743250) or [following me on tumblr](http://pikestaff.tumblr.com) where I will definitely scream about it.  
>   
> 
> [insert picture of Hawke and Anders holding hands <3]
> 
> \-----
> 
> **UPDATE SEP 2018:**
> 
> Okay I kind of fell out of the DA fandom so while I actually did start writing a sequel (which I never uploaded) I kind of got bored with it and I'm on hiatus with it. I'd love to revisit this series someday but I'm afraid I can't promise anything. As a consolation prize, enjoy the [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/22jjve2qrfqu3nfyul7vbisla/playlist/4NWZ96N6inxrIkT2fpeZ9y) I made for this fic. Thank you again for all the support.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how long this is going to end up being - probably long. The DA2 retelling that nobody asked for but that you're all gonna get :D
> 
> Meanwhile, you can find me on tumblr - http://pikestaff.tumblr.com


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